.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANG 


• 


[See  p.  325 


I    RECKON    IT   WAS   THE    DIVINE    INTENTION    FOR   ME    AND    YOU 
TO   HAVE   THIS    SECRET   BETWEEN    US  '  " 


Ann    B  o  y  d 


B 


By 

Will    N.    Harben 

Author  of 

"  Abner  Daniel  "  "  Pole  Baker" 
"The  Georgians"  etc. 


New  York  and  London 

Harper   &  Brothers  Publishers 

1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  rtsirvcd. 

Published  September,  1906. 


To 

William    Dean    Howells 


2130312 


Ann    Boyd 


Ann    Boyd 


[N  BOYD  stood  at  the  open  door  of 
her  corn-house,  a  square,  one-storied 
hut  made  of  the  trunks  of  young  pine- 
trees,  the  bark  of  which,  being  worm- 
eaten,  was  crumbling  from  the  smooth 
hard-wood.  She  had  a  tin  pail  on  her  arm,  and  was 
selecting  "nubbins"  for  her  cow  from  the  great 
heap  of  husked  corn  which,  like  a  mound  of  golden 
nuggets,  lay  within.  The  strong- jawed  animal  could 
crunch  the  dwarfed  ears,  grain  and  corn  together, 
when  they  were  stirred  into  a  mush  made  of  wheat- 
bran  and  dish-water. 

Mrs.  Boyd,  although  past  fifty,  showed  certain 
signs  of  having  been  a  good-looking  woman.  Her 
features  were  regular,  but  her  once  slight  and  erect 
figure  was  now  heavy,  and  bent  as  if  from  toil. 
Her  hair,  which  in  her  youth  had  been  a  luxuriant 
golden  brown,  was  now  thinner  and  liberally  streak- 
ed with  gray.  From  her  eyes  deep  wrinkles  di- 
verged, and  the  corners  of  her  firm  mouth  were 
drawn  downward.  Her  face,  even  in  repose,  wore 
an  almost  constant  frown,  and  this  habit  had  deeply 


Ann    Boyd 

gashed  her  forehead  with  lines  that  deepened  when 
she  was  angry. 

With  her  pail  on  her  arm,  she  was  turning  back 
towards  her  cottage,  which  stood  about  a  hundred 
yards  to  the  right,  beneath  the  shade  of  two  giant 
oaks,  when  she  heard  her  name  called  from  the 
main-travelled  road,  which  led  past  her  farm,  on 
to  Darley,  ten  miles  away. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mrs.  Waycroft!"  she  exclaimed, 
without  change  of  countenance,  as  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  neighbor  appeared  above  the  rail- 
fence.  "  I  couldn't  imagine  who  it  was  calling  me." 

"Yes,  it  was  me,"  the  woman  said,  as  Mrs.  Boyd 
reached  the  fence  and  rested  her  pail  on  the  top 
rail.  "  I  hain't  seed  you  since  I  seed  you  at  church, 
Sunday.  I  tried  to  get  over  yesterday,  but  was  too 
busy  with  one  thing  and  another." 

"  I  reckon  you  have  had  your  hands  full  planting 
cotton,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd.  "  I  didn't  expect  you ;  be- 
sides, I've  had  all  I  could  do  in  my  own  field." 

"Yes,  my  boys  have  been  hard  at  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Waycroft.  "  I  don't  go  to  the  field  myself,  like  you 
do.  I  reckon  I  ain't  hardy  enough,  but  keeping 
things  for  them  to  eat  and  the  house  in  order  takes 
all  my  time." 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd,  studying  the  woman's 
face  closely  under  the  faded  black  poke-bonnet — "  I 
reckon  you've  got  something  to  tell  me.  You  gen- 
erally have.  I  wish  I  could  not  care  a  snap  of  the 
finger  what  folks  say,  but  I'm  only  a  natural  woman. 
I  want  to  hear  things  sometimes  when  I  know  they 
will  make  me  so  mad  that  I  won't  eat  a  bite  for 
days." 

2 


Ann    Boyd 

Mrs.  Waycroft  looked  down  at  the  ground. 
"Well,"  she  began,  "I  reckon  you  know  thar 
would  be  considerable  talk  after  what  happened 
at  meeting  Sunday.  You  know  a  thing  like  that 
naturally  would  stir  up  a  quiet  community  like 
this." 

"  Yes,  when  I  think  of  it  I  can  see  there  would 
be  enough  said,  but  I'm  used  to  being  the  chief 
subject  of  idle  talk.  I've  had  twenty  odd  years 
of  it,  Mary  Waycroft,  though  this  public  row  was 
rather  unexpected.  I  didn't  look  for  abuse  from 
the  very  pulpit  in  God's  house,  if  it  is  His.  I 
didn't  know  you  were  there.  I  didn't  know  a 
friendly  soul  was  nigh." 

"  Yes,  I  was  there  clean  through  from  the  open- 
ing hymn.  A  bolt  from  heaven  on  a  sunny  day 
couldn't  have  astonished  me  more  than  I  was  when 
you  come  in  and  walked  straight  up  the  middle 
aisle,  and  sat  down  just  as  if  you'd  been  coming 
there  regular  for  all  them  years.  I  reckon  you 
had  your  own  private  reasons  for  making  the 
break." 

"Yes,  I  did."  The  wrinkled  mouth  of  the 
speaker  twitched  nervously.  "I'd  been  thinking 
it  out,  Mrs.  Waycroft,  for  a  long  time  and  trying 
to  pray  over  it,  and  at  last  I  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  if  I  didn't  go  to  church  like  the  rest, 
it  was  an  open  admission  that  I  acknowledged 
myself  worse  than  others,  and  so  I  determined  to 
go — I  determined  to  go  if  it  killed  me." 

"And  to  think  you  was  rewarded  that  way!" 
answered  Mrs.  Waycroft;  "it's  a  shame!  Ann 
Boyd,  it's  a  dirty  shame!" 

3 


Ann    Boyd 

"  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  darken  a  church 
door  again,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd.  "If  I'm  ever  seen 
there  it  will  be  after  I'm  dead  and  they  take  me 
there  feet  foremost  to  preach  over  my  body.  I 
didn't  look  around,  but  I  knew  they  were  all  whis- 
pering about  me." 

"You  never  saw  the  like  in  your  life,  Ann,"  the 
visitor  said.  "Heads  were  bumping  together  to 
the  damagement  of  new  spring  hats,  and  every- 
body was  asking  what  it  meant.  Some  said  that, 
after  meeting,  you  was  going  up  and  give  your 
hand  to  Brother  Bazemore  and  ask  him  to  take 
you  back,  as  a  member,  but  he  evidently  didn't 
think  you  had  a  purpose  like  that,  or  he  wouldn't 
have  opened  up  on  you  as  he  did.  Of  course, 
everybody  thar  knowed  he  was  hitting  at  you." 

"Oh  yes,  they  all  knew,  and  he  had  no  reason 
for  thinking  I  wanted  to  ask  any  favor,  for  he 
knows  too  well  what  I  think  of  him.  He  hates  the 
ground  I  walk  on.  He  has  been  openly  against 
me  ever  since  he  come  to  my  house  and  asked  me 
to  let  the  Sunday-school  picnic  at  my  spring  and 
in  my  grove.  I  reckon  I  gave  it  to  him  pretty 
heavy  that  day,  for  all  I'd  been  hearing  about 
what  he  had  had  to  say  of  me  had  made  me  mad. 
I  let  him  get  out  his  proposal  as  politely  as  such 
a  sneaking  man  could,  and  then  I  showed  him 
where  I  stood.  Here,  Mrs.  Waycroft,  I've  been 
treated  like  a  dog  and  an  outcast  by  every  mem- 
ber of  his  church  for  the  last  twenty  years,  called 
the  vilest  names  a  woman  ever  bore  by  his  so- 
called  Christian  gang,  and  then,  when  they  want 
something  I've  got — something  that  nobody  else 

4 


Ann    Boyd 

can  furnish  quite  as  suitable  for  their  purpose — why 
he  saunters  over  to  my  house  holding  the  skirts 
of  his  long  coat  as  if  afraid  of  contamination,  and 
calmly  demands  the  use  of  my  property — property 
that  I've  slaved  in  the  hot  sun  and  sleet  and  rain 
to  pay  for  with  hard  work.  Oh,  I  was  mad!  You 
see,  that  was  too  much,  and  I  reckon  he  never  in 
all  his  life  got  such  a  tongue-lashing.  When  I  came 
in  last  Sunday  and  sat  down,  I  saw  his  eyes  flash, 
and  knew  if  he  got  half  an  excuse  he  would  let  out 
on  me.  I  was  sorry  I'd  come  then,  but  there  was 
no  backing  out  after  I'd  got  there." 

"  When  he  took  his  text  I  knew  he  meant  it  for 
you,"  said  the  other  woman.  "I  have  never  seen 
a  madder  man  in  the  pulpit,  never  in  my  life. 
While  he  was  talking,  he  never  once  looked  at 
you,  though  he  knew  everybody  else  was  doing 
nothing  else.  Then  I  seed  you  rise  to  your  feet. 
He  stopped  to  take  a  drink  from  his  goblet,  and 
you  could  'a'  heard  a  pin  fall,  it  was  so  still.  I 
reckon  the  rest  thought  like  I  did,  that  you  was 
going  right  up  to  him  and  pull  his  hair  or  slap  his 
jaws.  You  looked  like  you  hardly  knowed  what 
you  was  doing,  and,  for  one,  I  tuck  a  free  breath 
when  you  walked  straight  out  of  the  house.  What 
you  did  was  exactly  right,  as  most  fair-minded 
folks  will  admit,  though  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  my 
friend,  that  you  won't  find  fair-minded  folks  very 
plentiful  hereabouts.  The  fair-minded  ones  are 
over  there  in  that  graveyard." 

Mrs.  Boyd  stroked  her  quivering  lips  with  her 
hard,  brown  hand,  and  said,  softly:  "I  wasn't 
going  to  sit  there  and  listen  to  any  more  of  it.  I'd 

5 


Ann   Boyd 

thrown  aside  pride  and  principle  and  gone  to  do 
my  duty  to  my  religion,  as  I  saw  it,  and  thought 
maybe  some  of  them — one  or  two,  at  least — would 
meet  me  part  of  the  way,  but  I  couldn't  listen  to 
a  two  hours'  tirade  about  me  and  my — my  mis- 
fortune. If  I'd  stayed  any  longer,  I'd  have  spoken 
back  to  him,  and  that  would  have  been  exactly 
what  he  and  some  of  the  rest  would  have  wanted, 
for  then  they  could  have  made  a  case  against  me 
in  court  for  disturbing  public  worship,  and  im- 
posed a  heavy  fine.  They  can't  bear  to  think 
that,  in  spite  of  all  their  persecution,  I've  gone 
ahead  and  paid  my  debts  and  prospered  in  a  way 
that  they  never  could  do  with  all  their  sanctimony." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  A  gentle 
breeze  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  the  blades 
of  long  grass  beside  the  road.  There  was  a  far- 
away tinkling  of  cow  and  sheep  bells  in  the  lush- 
green  pastures  which  stretched  out  towards  the 
frowning  mountain  against  which  the  setting  sun 
was  levelling  its  rays. 

"You  say  you  haven't  seen  anybody  since  Sun- 
day," remarked  the  loitering  woman,  in  restrained, 
tentative  tones. 

"No,  I've  been  right  here.  Why  did  you  ask 
me  that?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Ann,"  was  the  slow  answer, 
"talking  at  the  rate  Bazemore  was  to  your  face, 
don't  you  think  it  would  be  natural  for  him  to — to 
sort  o'  rub  it  on  even  heavier  behind  your  back, 
after  you  got  up  that  way  and  went  out  so  sudden." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,  but  I  can  see  now  that 
it  would  be  just  like  him."  Mrs.  Boyd  took  a  deep 

6 


Ann   Boyd 

breath  and  lowered  her  pail  to  the  ground.  "  Yes," 
she  went  on,  reflectively,  as  she  drew  herself  up 
again  and  leaned  on  the  fence,  "  I  reckon  he  got 
good  and  mad  when  I  got  up  and  left." 

"Huh!"  The  other  woman  smiled.  "He  was 
so  mad  he  could  hardly  speak.  He  fairly  gulped, 
his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  was  as  white  as  a  bunch 
of  cotton.  He  poured  out  another  goblet  of  water 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  drinking,  and  his  hand 
shook  so  much  that  the  glass  tinkled  like  a  bell 
against  the  mouth  of  the  pitcher.  You  must  have 
got  as  far  as  the  hitching-rack  before  his  fury 
busted  out.  I  reckon  what  he  said  was  the  most 
unbecoming  thing  that  a  stout,  able-bodied  man 
ever  hurled  at  a  defenceless  woman's  back." 

There  was  another  pause.  Mrs.  Boyd's  ex- 
pectant face  was  as  hard  as  stone;  her  dark-gray 
eyes  were  two  burning  fires  in  their  shadowy 
orbits. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked.  "You  might 
as  well  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Waycroft  avoided  her  companion's  fierce 
stare.  "He  looked  down  at  the  place  where  you 
sat,  Ann,  right  steady  for  a  minute,  then  he  said: 
'I'm  glad  that  woman  had  the  common  decency 
to  sit  on  a  seat  by  herself  while  she  was  here ;  but 
I  hope  when  meeting  is  over  that  some  of  you 
brethren  will  take  the  bench  out  in  the  woods  and 
burn  it.  I'll  pay  for  a  new  one  out  of  my  own 
pocket.'  " 

"Oh!"  The  exclamation  seemed  wrung  from  her 
when  off  her  guard,  and  Mrs.  Boyd  clutched  the 
rail  of  the  fence  so  tightly  that  her  strong  nails 

7 


Ann    Boyd 

sunk  into  the  soft  wood.  "He  said  that!  He 
said  that  about  me!" 

"Yes,  and  he  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of 
himself,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft;  "and  if  he  had  been 
anything  else  than  a  preacher,  surely  some  of  the 
men  there — men  you  have  befriended — would  not 
have  set  still  and  let  it  pass." 

"But  they  did  let  it  pass,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd,  bit- 
terly; "they  did  let  it  pass,  one  and  all." 

"  Oh  yes,  nobody  would  dare,  in  this  section,  to 
criticise  a  preacher,"  said  the  other.  "What  any 
little,  spindle-legged  parson  says  goes  the  same 
as  the  word  of  God  out  here  in  the  backwoods. 
I'd  have  left  the  church  myself,  but  I  knowed 
you'd  want  to  hear  what  was  said;  besides,  they 
all  know  I'm  your  friend." 

"Yes,  they  all  know  you  are  the  only  white 
woman  that  ever  comes  near  me.  But  what  else 
did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  had  lots  to  say.  He  said  he  hadn't 
mentioned  no  names,  but  it  was  always  the  hit  dog 
that  yelped,  and  that  you  had  made  yourself  a 
target  by  leaving  as  you  did.  He  went  on  to  say 
that,  in  his  opinion,  all  that  was  proved  at  court 
against  you  away  back  there  was  just.  He  said 
some  folks  misunderstood  Scripture  when  it  come 
to  deal  with  your  sort  and  stripe.  He  said  some 
argued  that  a  church  door  ought  always  to  be 
wide  open  to  any  sinner  whatsoever,  but  that  in 
your  daily  conduct  of  holding  every  coin  so  tight 
that  the  eagle  on  it  squeals,  and  in  giving  nothing 
to  send  the  Bible  to  the  heathens,  and  being 
eternally  at  strife  with  your  neighbors,  you  had 

8 


Ann    Boyd 

showed,  he  said,  that  no  good  influence  could  be 
brought  to  bear  on  you,  and  that  people  who  was 
really  trying  to  live  upright  lives  ought  to  shun 
you  like  they  would  a  catching  disease.  He 
'lowed  you'd  had  the  same  Christian  chance  in 
your  bringing-up,  and  a  better  education  than 
most  gals,  and  had  deliberately  thro  wed  it  all  up 
and  gone  your  headstrong  way.  In  his  opinion, 
it  would  be  wrong  to  condone  your  past,  and  tell 
folks  you  stood  an  equal  chance  with  the  rising 
generation  fetched  up  under  the  rod  and  Biblical 
injunction  by  parents  who  knowed  what  lasting 
scars  the  fires  of  sin  could  burn  in  a  living  soul. 
He  said  the  community  had  treated  you  right,  in 
sloughing  away  from  you,  ever  since  you  was  found 
out,  because  you  had  never  showed  a  minute's  open 
repentance.  You'd  helt  your  head,  he  thought, 
if  possible,  higher  than  ever,  and  in  not  receiving 
the  social  sanction  of  your  neighbors,  it  looked  like 
you  was  determined  to  become  the  richest  woman 
in  the  state  for  no  other  reason  than  to  prove  that 
wrong  prospered." 

The  speaker  paused  in  her  recital.  The  listener, 
her  face  set  and  dark  with  fury,  glanced  towards 
the  cottage.  "Come  in,"  she  said,  huskily;  "peo- 
ple might  pass  along  and  know  what  we  are  talk- 
ing about,  and,  somehow,  I  don't  want  to  give 
them  that  satisfaction." 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft;  "they  say 
I  fetch  you  every  bit  of  gossip,  anyway.  A  few 
have  quit  speaking  to  me.  Bazemore  would  him- 
self, if  he  didn't  look  to  me  once  a  month  for  my 
contribution.  I  hope  what  I've  told  you  won't 

,  9 


Ann    Boyd 

upset  you,  Ann,  but  you  always  say  you  want  to 
know  what's  going  on.  It  struck  me  that  the 
whole  congregation  was  about  the  most  heartless 
body  of  human  beings  I  ever  saw  packed  together 
in  one  bunch." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  one  other  thing,"  said 
Mrs.  Boyd,  tensely,  as  they  were  entering  the  front 
doorway  of  the  cottage  • —  "  was  Jane  Hemingway 
there?" 

"Oh  yes,  by  a  large  majority.  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  about  her.  I  had  my  eyes  on  her,  too,  for  I 
knowed  it  would  tickle  her  nigh  to  death,  and  it 
did.  When  you  left  she  actually  giggled  out  loud 
and  turned  back  an'  whispered  to  the  Mayfield 
girls.  Her  old,  yellow  face  fairly  shone,  she  was 
that  glad,  and  when  Bazemore  went  on  talking 
about  you  and  burning  that  bench,  she  fairly 
doubled  up,  with  her  handkerchief  clapped  over 
her  mouth." 

Mrs.  Boyd  drew  a  stiff -backed  chair  from  beneath 
the  dining-table  and  pushed  it  towards  her  guest. 
"There  is  not  in  hell  itself,  Mary  Waycroft,  a 
hatred  stronger  than  I  feel  right  now  for  that 
woman.  She  is  a  fiend  in  human  shape.  That 
miserable  creature  has  hounded  me  every  minute 
since  we  were  girls  together.  As  God  is  my  judge, 
I  believe  I  could  kill  her  and  not  suffer  remorse. 
There  was  a  time  when  my  disposition  was  as  sweet 
and  gentle  as  any  girl's,  but  she  changed  it.  She 
has  made  me  what  I  am.  She  is  responsible  for  it 
all.  I  might  have  gone  on — after  my — my  mis- 
fortune, and  lived  in  some  sort  of  harmony  with  my 
kind  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her." 

10 


Ann   Boyd 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  other  woman,  as  she  sat 
down  and  folded  her  cloth  bonnet  in  her  thin  hands. 
"  I  really  believe  you'd  have  been  a  different  wom- 
an, as  you  say,  after — after  your  trouble  if  she  had 
let  you  alone." 

Mrs.  Boyd  seated  herself  in  another  chair  near 
the  open  door,  and  looked  out  at  a  flock  of  chickens 
and  ducks  which  had  gathered  at  the  step  and  were 
noisily  clamoring  for  food. 

"  I  saw  two  things  that  made  my  blood  boil  as 
I  was  leaving  the  church,"  said  she.  "I  saw  Abe 
Longley,  who  has  been  using  my  pasture  for  his 
cattle  free  of  charge  for  the  last  ten  years.  I  caught 
sight  of  his  face,  and  it  made  me  mad  to  think  he'd 
sit  there  and  never  say  a  word  in  defence  of  the 
woman  he'd  been  using  all  that  time;  and  then  I 
saw  George  Wilson,  just  as  indifferent,  near  the  door, 
when  I've  been  favoring  him  and  his  shabby  store 
with  all  my  trade  when  I  could  have  done  better 
by  going  on  to  Darley.  I  reckon  neither  of  those 
two  men  said  the  slightest  thing  when  Bazemore 
advised  the  —  the  burning  of  the  bench  I'd  sat 
on." 

"Oh  no,  of  course  not!"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft, 
"nobody  said  a  word.  They  wouldn't  have  dared, 
Ann." 

"Well,  they  will  both  hear  from  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Boyd,  "and  in  a  way  that  they  won't  forget  soon. 
I  tell  you,  Mary  Waycroft,  this  thing  has  reached 
a  climax.  That  burning  bench  is  going  to  be  my 
war-torch.  They  say  I've  been  at  strife  with  my 
neighbors  all  along;  well,  they'll  see  now.  I  strug- 
gled and  struggled  with  pride  to  get  up  to  the  point 

ii 


Ann   Boyd 

of  going  to  church  again,  and  that's  the  reception  I 
got." 

"It's  a  pity  to  entertain  hard  feelings,  but  I 
don't  blame  you  a  single  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft, 
sympathetically.  "As  I  look  at  it,  you  have  done 
all  you  can  to  live  in  harmony,  and  they  simply 
won't  have  it.  They  might  be  different  if  it  wasn't 
for  that  meddlesome  old  Jane  Hemingway.  She 
keeps  them  stirred  up.  She  and  her  daughter  is 
half  starving  to  death,  while  you—  Mrs.  Way- 
croft  glanced  round  the  room  at  the  warm  rag 
carpet  of  many  colors,  at  the  neat  fire-screen  made 
of  newspaper  pictures  pasted  on  a  crude  frame  of 
wood,  and,  higher,  to  the  mantel-piece,  whose  sole 
ornament  was  a  Seth  Thomas  clock,  with  the  Tower 
of  London  in  glaring  colors  on  the  glass  door — 
"while  you  don't  ask  anybody  any  odds.  Instead 
of  starving,  gold  dollars  seem  to  roll  up  to  your 
door  of  their  own  accord  and  fall  in  a  heap.  They 
tell  me  even  that  cotton  factory  which  you  invested 
in,  and  which  Mrs.  Hemingway  said  had  busted  and 
gone  up  the  spout,  is  really  doing  well." 

"The  stock  has  doubled  in  value,"  said  Mrs. 
Boyd,  simply.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  account  for 
my  making  money.  I  reckon  it's  simply  good 
judgment  and  a  habit  of  throwing  nothing  away. 
The  factory  got  to  a  pretty  low  ebb,  and  the  people 
lost  faith  in  it,  and  were  offering  their  stock  at  half- 
price.  My  judgment  told  me  it  would  pull  through 
as  soon  as  times  improved,  and  I  bought  an  interest 
in  it  at  a  low  figure.  I  was  right;  it  proved  to  be 
a  fine  investment." 

"I    was   sorter   sorry   for  Virginia   Hemingway, 

12 


Ann   Boyd 

Sunday,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft.  "When  her  mother 
was  making  such  an  exhibition  of  herself  in  gloat- 
ing over  the  way  you  was  treated,  the  poor  girl 
looked  like  she  was  ashamed,  and  pulled  Jane's 
apron  like  she  was  trying  to  keep  her  quiet.  I 
reckon  you  hain't  got  nothing  against  the  girl, 
Ann?"  ' 

"  Nothing  except  that  she  is  that  devilish  woman's 
offspring,"  said  Mrs.  Boyd.  "It's  hard  to  dislike 
her;  she's  pretty — by  all  odds  the  prettiest  and 
sweetest-looking  young  woman  in  this  county. 
Her  mother  in  her  prime  never  saw  the  day  she 
was  anything  like  her.  They  say  Virginia  isn't 
much  of  a  hand  to  gossip  and  abuse  folks.  I 
reckon  her  mother's  ways  have  disgusted  her." 

"I  reckon  that's  it,"  said  the  other  woman,  as 
she  rose  to  go.  "I  know  I  love  to  look  at  her; 
she  does  my  old  eyes  good.  At  meeting  I  some- 
times gaze  steady  at  her  for  several  minutes  on  a 
stretch.  Sitting  beside  that  hard,  crabbed  old 
thing,  the  girl  certainly  does  look  out  of  place. 
She  deserves  a  better  fate  than  to  be  tied  to  such 
a  woman.  I  reckon  she'll  be  picked  up  pretty  soon 
by  some  of  these  young  men — that  is,  if  Jane  will 
give  her  any  sort  of  showing.  Jane  is  so  suspicious 
of  folks  that  she  hardly  lets  Virginia  out  of  her 
sight.  Well,  I  must  be  going.  Since  my  husband's 
death  I've  had  my  hands  full  on  the  farm;  he  did 
a  lots  to  help  out,  even  about  the  kitchen.  Good- 
bye. I  can  see  what  I've  said  has  made  a  change 
in  you,  Ann.  I  never  saw  you  look  quite  so  dif- 
ferent." 

"Yes,   the  wfeole   thing  has  kind  o'  jerked  me 


Ann    Boyd 

round,"  replied  Mrs.  Boyd.  "I've  taken  entirely 
too  much  off  of  these  people — let  them  run  over  me 
dry-shod;  but  I'll  show  them  a  thing  or  two.  They 
won't  let  me  live  in  peace,  and  now  they  can  try 
the  other  thing."  And  Ann  Boyd  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  watched  the  visitor  trudge  slowly 
away. 

"Yes,"  she  mused,  as  she  looked  out  into  the 
falling  dusk,  "they  are  trying  to  drive  me  to  the 
wall  with  their  sneers  and  lashing  tongues.  But 
I'll  show  them  that  a  worm  can  turn." 


II 


IfHE  next  morning,  after  a  frugal  break- 
fast of  milk  and  cornmeal  pancake, 
prepared  over  an  open  fireplace  on 
live  coals,  which  reddened  her  cheeks 
and  bare  arms,  Mrs.  Boyd  pinned  up 
her  skirts  till  their  edges  hung  on  a  level  with  the 
tops  of  her  coarse,  calf -skin  shoes.  She  then  climbed 
over  the  brier-grown  rail-fence  with  the  agility  of 
a  hunter  and  waded  through  the  high,  dew-soaked 
weeds  and  grass  in  the  direction  of  the  rising  sun. 
The  meadow  was  like  a  rolling  green  sea  settling 
down  to  calmness  after  a  storm.  Here  and  there 
a  tuft  of  dewy  broom-sedge  held  up  to  her  vision 
a  sheaf  of  green  hung  with  sparkling  diamonds, 
emeralds,  and  rubies,  and  far  ahead  ran  a  crystal 
creek  in  and  out  among  gracefully  drooping  willows 
and  erect  young  reeds. 

"That's  his  brindle  heifer  now,"  the  trudging 
woman  said,  harshly.  "  And  over  beyond  the  hay- 
stack and  cotton-shed  is  his  muley  cow  and  calf. 
Huh,  I  reckon  I'll  make  them  strike  a  lively  trot! 
It  will  be  some  time  before  they  get  grass  as  rich 
as  mine  inside  of  them  to  furnish  milk  and  butter 
for  Abe  Longley  and  his  sanctimonious  lay-out." 

Slowly  walking  around  the  animals,  she  finally 
got  them  together  and  drove  them  from  her  pasture 


Ann    Boyd 

to  the  small  road  which  ran  along  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  towards  their  owner's  farm-house,  the 
gray  roof  of  which  rose  above  the  leafy  trees  in  the 
distance.  To  drive  the  animals  out,  she  had  found 
it  necessary  to  lower  a  panel  of  her  fence,  and  she 
was  replacing  the  rails  laboriously,  one  by  one, 
when  she  heard  a  voice  from  the  woodland  on  the 
mountain-side,  a  tract  of  unproductive  land  owned 
by  the  man  whose  cows  she  was  ejecting.  It  was 
Abe  Longley  himself,  and  in  some  surprise  he  hur- 
ried down  the  rugged  steep,  a  woodman's  axe  on 
his  shoulder.  He  was  a  gaunt,  slender  man,  gray 
and  grizzled,  past  sixty  years  of  age,  with  a  tuft  of 
stiff  beard  on  his  chin,  which  gave  his  otherwise 
smooth-shaven  face  a  forbidding  expression. 

" Hold  on  thar,  Sister  Boyd!"  he  called  out,  cheer- 
ily, though  he  seemed  evidently  to  be  trying  to 
keep  from  betraying  the  impatience  he  evidently 
felt.  "You  must  be  getting  nigh-sighted  in  yore 
old  age.  As  shore"  as  you  are  a  foot  high  them's 
my  cattle,  an'  not  yourn.  Why,  I  knowed  my 
brindle  from  clean  up  at  my  wood-pile,  a  full  quar- 
ter from  here.  I  seed  yore  mistake  an'  hollered 
then,  but  I  reckon  you  are  gettin'  deef  as  well  as 
blind.  I  driv'  'em  in  not  twenty  minutes  ago,  as  I 
come  on  to  do  my  cuttin'." 

"I  know  you  did,  Abe  Longley,"  and  Mrs. 
Boyd  stooped  to  grasp  and  raise  the  last  rail  and 
carefully  put  it  in  place;  "I  know  they  are  yours. 
My  eyesight's  good  enough.  I  know  good  and  well 
they  are  yours,  and  that  is  the  very  reason  I  made 
them  hump  themselves  to  get  off  of  my  property." 

"But — but,"  and  the  farmer,  thoroughly  puz- 

16 


Ann    Boyd 

zled,  lowered  his  glittering  axe  and  stared  wonder- 
ingly — "but  you  know,  Sister  Boyd,  that  you  told 
me  with  your  own  mouth  that,  being  as  I'd  traded 
off  my  own  pasture-land  to  Dixon  for  my  strip  o' 
wheat  in  the  bottom,  that  I  was  at  liberty  to  use 
yourn  how  and  when  I  liked,  and,  now — why,  I'll 
be  dad-blamed  if  I  understand  you  one  bit." 

"  Well,  I  understand  what  I'm  about,  Abe  Long- 
ley,  if  you  don't!"  retorted  the  owner  of  the  land. 
"  I  did  say  you  could  pasture  on  it,  but  I  didn't  say 
you  could  for  all  time  and  eternity ;  and  I  now  give 
you  due  notice  if  I  ever  see  any  four-footed  animal 
of  yours  inside  of  my  fences  I'll  run  them  out  with 
an  ounce  of  buckshot  in  their  hides." 

"  Well,  well,  well!"  Longley  cried,  at  the  end  of  his 
resources,  as  he  leaned  on  his  smooth  axe-handle 
with  one  hand  and  clutched  his  beard  with  the 
other.  "I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  yore  con- 
duct. I  can't  do  without  the  use  of  your  land. 
There  hain't  a  bit  that  I  could  rent  or  buy  for  love 
or  money  on  either  side  of  me  for  miles  around. 
When  folks  find  a  man's  in  need  of  land,  they  stick 
the  price  up  clean  out  of  sight.  I  was  tellin'  Sue 
the  other  day  that  we  was  in  luck  havin'  sech  a 
neighbor — one  that  would  do  so  much  to  help  a 
body  in  a  plight." 

"Yes,  I'm  very  good  and  kind,"  sneered  Mrs. 
Boyd,  her  sharp  eyes  ablaze  with  indignation,  "  and 
last  Sunday  in  meeting  you  and  a  lot  of  other  able- 
bodied  men  sat  still  and  let  that  foul  -  mouthed 
Bazemore  say  that  even  the  wooden  bench  I  sat 
on  ought  to  be  taken  out  and  burned  for  the  public 
good.  You  sat  there  and  listened  to  that,  and  when 


Ann   Boyd 

he  was  through  you  got  up  and  sung  the  doxology 
and  bowed  your  head  while  that  makeshift  of  a 
preacher  called  down  God's  benediction  on  you.  If 
you  think  I'm  going  to  keep  a  pasture  for  such  a 
man  as  you  to  fatten  your  stock  on,  you  need  a 
guardian  to  look  after  you." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Longley  exclaimed,  a  crestfallen  look 
on  him.  "You  are  goin'  to  blame  us  all  for  what 
he  said,  and  you  are  mad  at  everybody  that  heard 
it.  But  you  are  dead  wrong,  Ann  Boyd  —  dead 
wrong.  You  can't  make  over  public  opinion,  and 
you'd  'a'  been  better  off  years  ago  if  you  hadn't 
been  so  busy  trying  to  do  it,  whether  or  no.  Folks 
would  let  you  alone  if  you'd  'a'  showed  a  more  re- 
pentant sperit,  and  not  held  your  head  so  high  and 
been  so  spiteful.  I  reckon  the  most  o'  your  trouble 
— that  is,  the  reason  it's  lasted  so  long,  is  due  to  the 
women-folks  more  than  the  men  of  the  community, 
anyhow.  You  see,  it  sorter  rubs  women's  wool  the 
wrong  way  to  see  about  the  only  prosperity  a  body 
can  see  in  the  entire  county  falling  at  the  feet  of  the 
one — well,  the  one  least  expected  to  have  sech 
things — the  one,  I  mought  say,  who  hadn't  lived 
exactly  up  to  the  best  precepts." 

"I  don't  go  to  men  like  you  for  my  precepts," 
the  woman  hurled  at  him,  "and  I  haven't  got  any 
time  for  palavering.  All  I  want  to  do  is  to  give 
you  due  notice  not  to  trespass  on  my  land,  and  I've 
done  that  plain  enough,  I  reckon." 

Abe  Longley 's  thin  face  showed  anger  that  was  even 
stronger  than  his  avarice ;  he  stepped  nearer  to  her, 
his  eyes  flashing,  his  wide  upper-lip  twitching  ner- 
vously. "Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that's  its  purty 

18 


Ann    Boyd 

foolhardy  of  you  to  take  up  a  fight  like  that  agin  a 
whole  community.  You  know  you  hain't  agoin' 
to  make  a  softer  bed  to  lie  on.  You  know,  if  you 
find  fault  with  me  fer  not  denouncin'  Bazemore, 
you  may  as  well  find  fault  with  every  living  soul 
that  was  under  reach  o'  his  voice,  fer  nobody  budged 
or  said  a  word  in  yore  defence." 

"  I'm  taking  up  a  fight  with  no  one,"  the  woman 
said,  firmly.  "They  can  listen  to  what  they  want 
to  listen  to.  The  only  thing  I'm  going  to  do  in 
future  is  to  see  that  no  person  uses  me  for  profit 
and  then  willingly  sees  me  spat  upon.  That's  all 
I've  got  to  say  to  you."  And,  turning,  she  walked 
away,  leaving  him  standing  as  if  rooted  among  his 
trees  on  the  brown  mountain-side. 

"He'll  go  home  and  tell  his  wife,  and  she'll  gad 
about  an'  fire  the  whole  community  against  me," 
Mrs.  Boyd  mused;  "but  I  don't  care.  I'll  have  my 
rights  if  I  die  for  it." 

An  hour  later,  in  another  dress  and  a  freshly 
washed  and  ironed  gingham  bonnet,  she  fed  her 
chickens  from  a  pan  of  wet  cornmeal  dough,  locked 
up  her  house  carefully,  fastening  down  the  window- 
sashes  on  the  inside  by  placing  sticks  above  the 
movable  ones,  and  trudged  down  the  road  to  George 
Wilson's  country-store  at  the  crossing  of  the  roads 
which  led  respectively  to  Springtown,  hard-by  on 
one  side,  and  Darley,  farther  away  on  the  other. 

The  store  was  a  long,  frame  building  which  had 
once  been  whitewashed,  but  was  now  only  a  fuzzy, 
weather-beaten  gray.  As  was  usual  in  such  struct- 
ures, the  front  walls  of  planks  rose  higher  than  the 
pointed  roof,  and  held  large  and  elaborate  lettering 


Ann   Boyd 

which  might  be  read  quite  a  distance  away.  There- 
on the  young  storekeeper  made  the  questionable 
statement  that  a  better  price  for  produce  was  given 
at  his  establishment  than  at  Darley,  where  high  rent, 
taxes,  and  clerk-hire  had  to  be  paid,  and,  moreover, 
that  his  goods  were  sold  cheaper  because,  unlike  the 
town  dealers,  he  lived  on  the  products  from  his 
own  farm  and  employed  no  help.  In  front  of  the 
store,  convenient  alike  to  both  roads,  stood  a  rustic 
hitching-rack  made  of  unbarked  oaken  poles  into 
which  railway  spikes  had  been  driven,  and  on  which 
horseshoes  had  been  nailed  to  hold  the  reins  of  any 
customer's  mount.  On  the  ample  porch  of  the 
store  stood  a  new  machine  for  the  hulling  of  pease, 
several  ploughs,  and  a  red-painted  device  for  the 
dropping  and  covering  of  seed-corn.  On  the  walls 
within  hung  various  pieces  of  tinware  and  harnesses 
and  saddles,  and  the  two  rows  of  shelving  held  a 
good  assortment  of  general  merchandise. 

As  Mrs.  Boyd  entered  the  store,  Wilson,  a  blond 
young  man  with  an  ample  mustache,  stood  behind 
the  counter  talking  to  an  Atlanta  drummer  who 
had  driven  out  from  Darley  to  sell  the  storekeeper 
some  dry-goods  and  notions,  and  he  did  not  come 
to  her  at  once,  but  delayed  to  see  the  drummer 
make  an  entry  in  his  order-book;  then  he  advanced 
to  her. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Boyd,"  he  smiled.  "I  am  or- 
dering some  new  prints  for  you  ladies,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  that  he  got  the  number  of  bolts  down  right. 
This  is  early  for  you  to  be  out,  isn't  it?  It's  been 
many  a  day  since  I've  seen  you  pass  this  way  before 
dinner.  I  took  a  sort  of  liberty  with  you  yester- 

20 


Ann   Boyd 

day,  knowing  how  good-natured  you  are.  Dave 
Prixon  was  going  your  way  with  his  empty  wagon, 
and,  as  I  was  about  to  run  low  on  your  favorite 
brand  of  flour,  I  sent  you  a  barrel  and  put  it  on 
your  account  at  the  old  price.  I  thought  you'd 
keep  it.  You  may  have  some  yet  on  hand,  but  this 
will  come  handy  when  you  get  out." 

"But  I  don't  intend  to  keep  it,"  replied  the 
woman,  under  her  bonnet,  and  her  voice  sounded 
harsh  and  crisp.  "I  haven't  touched  it.  It's  out 
in  the  yard  where  Prixon  dumped  it.  If  it  was  to 
rain  on  it  I  reckon  it  would  mildew.  It  wouldn't 
be  my  loss.  I  didn't  order  it  put  there." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Boyd!"  and  Wilson's  tone  and  sur- 
prised glance  at  the  drummer  caused  that  dapper 
young  man  to  prick  up  his  ears  and  move  nearer; 
"why,  it's  the  best  brand  I  handle,  and  you  said 
the  last  gave  you  particular  satisfaction,  so  I  nat- 
urally—" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  it;  I  didn't  order  it,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  have  you  nor  no  one  else  unloading 
stuff  in  my  front  yard  whenever  you  take  a  notion 
and  want  to  make  money  by  the  transaction.  De- 
duct that  from  my  bill,  and  tell  me  what  I  owe  you. 
I  want  to  settle  in  full." 

"But — but — "  Wilson  had  never  seemed  to  the 
commercial  traveller  to  be  so  much  disturbed;  he 
was  actually  pale,  and  his  long  hands,  which  rested 
on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  counter,  were  trem- 
bling—  "but  I  don't  understand,"  he  floundered. 
"  It's  only  the  middle  of  the  month,  Mrs.  Boyd,  and 
I  never  run  up  accounts  till  the  end.  You  are  not 
going  off,  are  you?" 

21 


Ann    Boyd 

"Oh  no,"  and  the  woman  pushed  back  her  bon- 
net and  eyed  him  almost  fiercely,  "you  needn't  any 
of  you  think  that.  I'm  going  to  stay  right  on  here; 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do,  George 
Wilson — I'm  going  to  buy  my  supplies  in  the  future 
at  Barley.  You  see,  since  this  talk  of  burning  the 
very  bench  I  sit  on  in  the  house  of  God,  which  you 
and  your  ilk  set  and  listen  to,  why — " 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd,"  he  broke  in,  "now  don't  go 
and  blame  me  for  what  Brother  Bazemore  said 
when  he  was — " 

"Brother  Bazemore!"  The  woman  flared  up  and 
brought  her  clinched  hand  down  on  the  counter. 
"I'll  never  as  long  as  I  live  let  a  dollar  of  my  money 
pass  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who  calls  that  man 
brother.  You  sat  still  and  raised  no  protest  against 
what  he  said,  and  that  ends  business  between  us 
for  all  time.  There  is  no  use  talking  about  it. 
Make  out  my  account,  and  don't  keep  me  standing 
here  to  be  stared  at  like  I  was  a  curiosity  in  a  side- 
show." 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Boyd;  I'm  sorry,"  faltered  Wilson, 
with  a  glance  at  the  drummer,  who,  feeling  that 
he  had  been  alluded  to,  moved  discreetly  across 
the  room  and  leaned  against  the  opposite  counter. 
"I'll  go  back  to  the  desk  and  make  it  out." 

She  stood  motionless  where  he  had  left  her  till 
he  came  back  with  her  account  in  his  hand,  then 
from  a  leather  bag  she  counted  out  the  money  and 
paid  it  to  him.  The  further  faint,  half  -  fearful 
apologies  which  Wilson  ventured  on  making  seemed 
to  fall  on  closed  ears,  and,  with  the  receipted  bill  in 
her  bag,  she  strode  from  the  house.  He  followed 

22 


Ann   Boyd 

her  to  the  door  and  stood  looking  after  her  as  she 
angrily  trudged  back  towards  her  farm. 

"Well,  well,"  he  sighed,  as  the  drummer  came 
to  his  elbow  and  stared  at  him  wonderingly,  "there 
goes  the  best  and  most  profitable  customer  I've 
had  since  I  began  selling  goods.  It's  made  me  sick 
at  heart,  Masters.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  with- 
out her,  and  yet  I  don't  blame  her  one  bit — not  a 
bit,  so  help  me  God." 


Ill 

|ILSON  turned,  and  with  a  frown  went 
moodily  back  to  his  desk  and  sat  down 
on  the  high  stool,  gloomily  eying  the 
page  in  a  ledger  which  he  had  just 
consulted. 

"By  George,  that  woman's  a  corker,"  said  the 
drummer,  sociably,  as  he  came  back  and  stood  near 
the  long  wood -stove.  "Of  course,  I  don't  know 
what  it's  all  about,  but  she's  her  own  boss,  I'll  stake 
good  money  on  that." 

"She's  about  the  sharpest  and  in  many  ways 
the  strongest  woman  in  the  state,"  said  the  store- 
keeper, with  a  sigh.  "Good  Lord,  Masters,  she's 
been  my  main-stay  ever  since  I  opened  this  shack, 
and  now  to  think  because  that  loud-mouthed  Baze- 
more,  who  expects  me  to  pay  a  good  part  of  his 
salary,  takes  a  notion  to  rip  her  up  the  back  in 
meeting,  why — " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  cried  the  drummer — "I  understand 
it  now.  I  heard  about  that  at  Darley.  So  she's 
the  woman!  "Well,  I'm  glad  I  got  a  good  look  at 
her.  I  see  a  lot  of  queer  things  in  going  about  over 
the  country,  but  I  don't  think  I  ever  ran  across  just 
her  sort." 

"She's  had  a  devil  of  a  life,  Masters,  from  the 
time  she  was  a  blooming,  pretty  young  girl  till  now 

24 


Ann   Boyd 

that  she  is  at  war  with  everybody  within  miles  of 
her.  She's  always  been  a  study  to  me.  She's  treated 
me  more  like  a  son  than  anything  else — doing  every- 
thing in  her  power  to  help  me  along,  buying,  by 
George,  things  sometimes  that  I  knew  she  didn't 
need  because  it  would  help  me  out,  and  now,  because 
I  didn't  get  up  in  meeting  last  Sunday  and  call  that 
man  down  she  holds  me  accountable.  I  don't  know 
but  what  she's  right.  Why  should  I  take  her  hard- 
earned  money  and  sit  still  and  allow  her  to  be 
abused  ?  She's  simply  got  pride,  and  lots  of  it,  and 
it's  bad  hurt." 

"But  what  was  it  all  about?"  the  drummer  in- 
quired. 

"The  start  of  it  was  away  back  when  she  was  a 
girl,  as  I  said,"  began  the  storekeeper.  "You've 
heard  of  Colonel  Preston  Chester,  our  biggest  planter, 
who  lives  a  mile  from  here — old-time  chap,  fighter 
of  duels,  officer  in  the  army,  and  all  that?" 

"Oh  yes,  I've  seen  him;  in  fact,  I  was  at  college 
at  the  State  University  with  his  son  Langdon.  He 
was  a  terrible  fellow — very  wild  and  reckless,  full 
half  the  time,  and  playing  poker  every  night.  He 
was  never  known  to  pay  a  debt,  even  to  his  best 
friends." 

"Langdon  is  a  chip  off  of  the  old  block,"  said 
Wilson.  "His  father  was  just  like  hirn  when  he 
was  a  young  man.  Between  you  and  me,  the 
Colonel  never  had  a  conscience;  old  as  he  now  is,  he 
will  sit  and  laugh  about  his  pranks  right  in  the 
presence  of  his  son.  It's  no  wonder  the  boy  turned 
out  like  he  did.  Well,  away  back  when  this  Mrs. 
Boyd  was  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  the  daughter  of 

3  25 


Ann   Boyd 

honest,  hard  -  working  people,  who  owned  a  little 
farm  back  of  his  place,  he  took  an  idle  fancy  to  her. 
I'm  telling  you  now  what  has  gradually  leaked  out 
in  one  way  and  another  since.  He  evidently  won 
her  entire  confidence,  made  her  believe  he  was  going 
to  marry  her,  and,  as  he  was  a  dashing  young  fellow, 
she  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  him.  Nobody 
knows  how  that  was,  but  one  thing  is  sure,  and  that 
is  that  he  was  seen  about  with  her  almost  constantly 
for  a  whole  year,  and  then  he  stopped  off  suddenly. 
The  report  went  out  that  he'd  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  married  to  a  young  woman  in  Alabama  who  had 
a  lot  of  money,  and  he  did  go  off  and  bring  home 
the  present  Mrs.  Chester,  Langdon's  mother.  Well, 
old-timers  say  young  Ann  Boyd  took  it  hard,  stayed 
close  in  at  home  and  wasn't  seen  out  for  a  couple  of 
years.  Then  she  come  out  again,  and  they  say  she 
was  better-looking  than  ever  and  a  great  deal  more 
serious  and  sensible.  Joe  Boyd  was  a  young  farmer 
those  days,  and  a  sort  of  dandy,  and  he  fell  dead  in 
love  with  her  and  hung  about  her  day  and  night, 
never  seeming  willing  to  let  her  out  of  his  sight. 
Several  other  fellows,  they  say,  was  after  her,  but 
she  seemed  to  like  Joe  the  best,  but  nothing  he'd 
do  or  say  would  make  her  accept  him.  I  can  see 
through  it  now,  looking  back  on  what  has  since 
leaked  out,  but  nobody  understood  it  then,  for  she 
had  evidently  got  over  her  attachment  for  Colonel 
Chester,  and  Joe  was  a  promising  fellow,  strong, 
good-looking,  and  a  great  beau  and  flirt  among 
women,  half  a  dozen  being  in  love  with  him,  but 
Ann  simply  wouldn't  take  him,  and  it  was  the  talk 
of  the  whole  county.  He  was  simply  desperate, 

26 


Ann   Boyd 

folks  say,  going  about  boring  everybody  he  met 
with  his  love  affair.  Finally  her  mother  and  father 
and  all  her  friends  got  after  her  to  marry  Joe,  and 
she  gave  in.  And  then  folks  wondered  more  than 
ever  why  she'd  delayed,  for  she  was  more  in  love 
with  her  husband  than  anybody  had  any  reason  to 
expect.  They  were  happy,  too.  A  child  was  born, 
a  little  girl,  and  that  seemed  to  make  them  happier. 
Then  Mrs.  Boyd's  mother  and  father  died,  and  she 
came  into  the  farm,  and  the  Boyds  were  comfortable 
in  every  way.  Then  what  do  you  think  happened  ?" 

"I've  been  wondering  all  along,"  the  drummer 
laughed.  "I  can  see  you're  holding  something  up 
your  sleeve." 

"Well,  this  happened.  Colonel  Chester's  wife 
was,  even  then,  a  homely  woman,  about  as  old  as 
he  was,  and  not  at  all  attractive  aside  from  her 
money,  and  marrying  hadn't  made  him  any  the 
less  devilish.  They  say  he  saw  Mrs.  Boyd  at  meet- 
ing one  day  and  hardly  took  his  eyes  off  of  her 
during  preaching.  She  had  developed  into  about 
the  most  stunning-looking  woman  anywhere  about, 
and  knew  how  to  dress,  which  was  something  Mrs. 
Chester,  with  all  her  chances,  had  never  seemed  to 
get  onto.  Well,  that  was  the  start  of  it,  and  from 
that  day  on  Chester  seemed  to  have  nothing  on 
his  mind  but  the  good  looks  of  his  old  sweetheart. 
Folks  saw  him  on  his  horse  riding  about  where  he 
could  get  to  meet  her,  and  then  it  got  reported  that 
he  was  actually  forcing  himself  on  her  to  such  an 
extent  that  Joe  Boyd  was  worked  up  over  it,  aided 
by  the  eternal  gab  of  all  the  women  in  the  sec- 
tion." 

27 


Ann   Boyd 

"Did  Colonel  Chester's  wife  get  onto  it?"  the 
drummer  wanted  to  know. 

"It  don't  seem  like  she  did,"  answered  Wilson. 
"  She  was  away  visiting  her  folks  in  the  South  most 
of  the  time,  with  Langdon,  who  was  a  baby  then, 
and  it  may  be  that  she  didn't  care.  Some  folks 
thought  she  was  weak-minded;  she  never  seemed 
to  have  any  will  of  her  own,  but  left  the  Colonel  to 
manage  her  affairs  without  a  word." 

"Well,  go  on  with  your  story,"  urged  the  drum- 
mer. 

"There  isn't  much  more  to  tell  about  the  poor 
woman,"  continued  Wilson.  "As  I  said,  Chester 
got  to  forcing  himself  on  her,  and  I  reckon  she  didn't 
want  to  tell  her  husband  what  she  was  trying  to 
forget  for  fear  of  a  shooting  scrape,  in  which  Joe 
would  get  the  worst  of  it;  but  this  happened:  Joe 
was  off  at  court  in  Darley  and  sent  word  home  to 
his  wife  that  he  was  to  be  held  all  night  on  a  jury. 
The  man  that  took  the  message  rode  home  along- 
side of  Chester  and  told  him  about  it.  Well,  I 
reckon,  all  hell  broke  out  in  Chester  that  night. 
He  was  a  drinking  man,  and  he  tanked  up,  and,  as 
his  wife  was  away,  he  had  plenty  of  liberty.  Well, 
he  simply  went  over  to  Joe  Boyd's  house  and  went 
in.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock.  My  honest  con- 
viction is,  no  matter  what  others  think,  that  she 
tried  her  level  best  to  make  him  leave  without 
rousing  the  neighborhood,  but  he  wouldn't  go,  but 
sat  there  in  the  dark  with  his  coat  off,  telling  her  he 
loved  her  more  than  her  husband  did,  and  that  he 
never  had  loved  his  wife,  and  that  he  was  crazy 
for  her,  and  the  like.  How  long  this  went  on,  with 

28 


Ann  Boyd 

her  imploring  and  praying  to  him  to  go,  I  don't 
know;  but,  at  any  rate,  they  both  heard  the  gate- 
latch  click  and  Joe  Boyd  come  right  up  the  gravel- 
walk.  I  reckon  the  poor  woman  was  scared  clean 
out  of  her  senses,  for  she  made  no  outcry,  and 
Chester  went  to  a  window,  his  coat  on  his  arm,  and 
was  climbing  out  when  Joe,  who  couldn't  get  in  at 
the  front  door  and  was  making  for  the  one  in  the 
rear,  met  him  face  to  face." 

"Great  goodness!"  ejaculated  the  commerical 
traveller. 

"Well,  you  bet,  the  devil  was  to  pay,"  went  on 
the  store-keeper,  grimly.  "Chester  was  mad  and 
reckless,  and,  being  hot  with  liquor,  and  regarding 
Boyd  as  far  beneath  him  socially,  instead  of  making 
satisfactory  explanations,  they  say  he  simply  swore 
at  Boyd  and  stalked  away.  Duinfounded,  Boyd  went 
inside  to  his  miserable  wife  and  demanded  an  ex- 
planation. She  has  since  learned  how  to  use  her 
wits  with  the  best  in  the  land,  but  she  was  young 
then,  and  so,  by  her  silence,  she  made  matters  worse 
for  herself.  He  forced  her  to  explain,  and,  seeing 
no  other  way  out  of  the  affair,  she  decided  to  throw 
herself  on  his  mercy  and  make  a  clean  breast  of 
things  her  and  her  family  had  kept  back  all  that 
time.  Well,  sir,  she  confessed  to  what  had  hap- 
pened away  back  before  Chester  had  deserted  her, 
no  doubt  telling  a  straight  story  of  her  absolute 
purity  and  faithfulness  to  Boyd  after  marriage. 
Poor  old  Joe!  He  wasn't  a  fighting  man,  and,  in- 
stead of  following  Chester  and  demanding  satis- 
faction, he  stayed  at  home  that  night,  no  doubt 
suffering  the  agony  of  the  damned  and  trying  to 

29 


Ann   Boyd 

make  up  his  mind  to  believe  in  his  wife  and  to  stand 
by  her.  As  it  looks  now,  he  evidently  decided  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  and  might  have  succeeded,  but 
somehow  it  got  out  about  Chester  being  caught 
there,  and  that  started  gossip  so  hot  that  her  life 
and  his  became  almost  unbearable.  It  might  have 
died  a  natural  death  in  time,  but  Mrs.  Boyd  had 
an  enemy,  Mrs.  Jane  Hemingway,  who  had  been 
one  of  the  girls  who  was  in  love  with  Joe  Boyd.  It 
seems  that  she  never  had  got  over  Joe's  marrying 
another  woman,  and  when  she  heard  this  scandal 
she  nagged  and  teased  Joe  about  his  babyishness  in 
being  willing  to  believe  his  wife,  and  told  him  so 
many  lies  that  Boyd  finally  quit  staying  at  home, 
sulking  about  in  the  mountains,  and  making  trips 
away  till  he  finally  applied  for  a  divorce.  Ignorant 
and  inexperienced  as  she  was,  and  proud,  Mrs. 
Boyd  made  no  defence,  and  the  whole  thing  went 
his  way  with  very  little  publicity.  But  the  hardest 
part  for  her  to  bear  was  when,  having  the  court's 
decree  to  take  charge  of  his  child,  Boyd  came  and 
took  it  away." 

"Good  gracious!  that  was  tough,  wasn't  it?"  ex- 
claimed the  drummer. 

"That's  what  it  was,  and  they  say  it  fairly  upset 
her  mind.  They  expected  her  to  fight  like  a  tiger 
for  her  young,  but  at  the  time  they  came  for  it  she 
only  seemed  stupefied.  The  little  girl  was  only 
three  years  old,  but  they  say  Ann  came  in  the  room 
and  said  she  was  going  to  ask  the  child  if  it  was 
willing  to  leave  her,  and  they  say  she  calmly  put 
the  question,  and  the  baby,  not  knowing  what  she 
meant,  said,  'Yes.'  Then  they  say  Ann  talked  to  it 

3° 


Ann    Boyd 

as  if  it  were  a  grown  person,  and  told  her  to  go,  that 
she'd  never  give  her  a  thought  in  the  future,  and 
never  wanted  to  lay  eyes  on  her  again." 

"That  was  pitiful,  wasn't  it?"  said  Masters.  "  By 
George,  we  don't  dream  of  what  is  going  on  in  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women  we  meet  face  to  face  every 
day.  And  that's  what  started  her  in  the  life  she's 
since  led." 

"  Yes,  she  lived  in  her  house  like  a  hermit,  never 
going  out  unless  she  absolutely  had  to.  She  had 
an  old  -  fashioned  loom  in  a  shed  -  room  adjoining 
her  house,  and  night  and  day  people  passing  along 
the  road  could  hear  her  thumping  away  on  it.  She 
kept  a  lot  of  fine  sheep,  feeding  and  shearing  them 
herself,  and  out  of  the  wool  she  wove  a  certain  kind 
of  jean  cloth  which  she  sold  at  a  fancy  figure.  I've 
seen  wagon-loads  of  it  pass  along  the  road  billed  to 
a  big  house  in  Atlanta.  This  went  on  for  several 
years,  and  then  it  was  noticed  that  she  was  accumu- 
lating money.  She  was  buying  all  the  land  she 
could  around  her  house,  as  if  to  force  folks  as  far 
from  her  as  possible,  and  she  turned  the  soil  to  a 
good  purpose,  for  she  knew  how  to  work  it.  She 
hired  negroes  for  cash,  when  others  were  paying  in 
old  clothes  and  scraps,  and,  as  she  went  to  the  field 
with  them  and  worked  in  the  sun  and  rain  like  a 
man,  she  got  more  out  of  her  planting  than  the 
average  farmer." 

"So  she's  really  well  off?"  said  the  drummer. 

"Got  more  than  almost  anybody  else  in  the 
cotinty,"  said  Wilson.  "She's  got  stocks  in  all 
sorts  of  things,  and  owns  houses  on  the  main  street 
in  Barley,  which  she  keeps  well  rented.  It  seems 

31 


Ann    Boyd 

like,  not  having  anything  else  to  amuse  her,  she 
turned  her  big  brain  to  economy  and  money-making, 
and  I've  always  thought  she  did  it  to  hit  back  at 
the  community.  You  see,  the  more  she  makes,  the 
more  her  less  fortunate  neighbors  dislike  her,  and 
she  loves  to  get  even  as  far  as  possible." 

"And  has  she  had  no  associates  at  all?"  Masters 
wanted  to  know. 

"  Well,  yes,  there  is  one  woman,  a  Mrs.  Way  croft, 
who  has  always  been  intimate  with  her.  She  is  the 
only — I  started  to  say  she  was  the  only  one,  but 
there  was  a  poor  mountain  fellow,  Luke  King,  a 
barefoot  boy  who  had  a  fine  character,  a  big  brain 
on  him,  and  no  education.  His  parents  were  poor, 
and  did  little  for  him.  They  say  Mrs.  Boyd  sort  of 
took  pity  on  him  and  used  to  buy  books  and  papers 
for  him,  and  that  she  really  taught  him  to  read  and 
write.  She  sent  him  off  to  school,  and  got  him  on 
his  feet  till  he  was  able  to  find  work  in  a  newspaper 
office  over  at  Canton,  where  he  became  a  boss  type- 
setter. I've  always  thought  that  her  misfortune 
had  never  quite  killed  her  natural  impulses,  for  she 
certainly  got  fond  of  that  fellow.  I  had  an  exhi- 
bition of  both  his  regard  and  hers  right  here  at  the 
store.  He'd  come  in  to  buy  something  or  other, 
and  was  waiting  about  the  stove  one  cold  winter 
day,  when  a  big  mountain  chap  made  a  light  re- 
mark about  Mrs.  Boyd.  He  was  a  head  taller  than 
Luke  King  was,  but  the  boy  sprang  at  him  like  a 
panther  and  knocked  the  fellow  down.  They  had 
the  bloodiest  fight  I  ever  saw,  and  it  was  several 
minutes  before  they  could  be  separated.  Luke  had 
damaged  the  chap  pretty  badly,  but  he  was  able 

32 


Ann    Boyd 

to  stand,  while  the  boy  keeled  over  in  a  dead  faint 
on  the  floor,  bruised  inside  some  way.  The  big  fel- 
low, fearing  arrest,  mounted  his  horse  and  went 
away,  and  several  of  us  were  doing  what  we  could 
with  cold  water  and  whiskey  to  bring  the  boy  around 
when  who  should  come  in  but  Ann  herself.  She 
was  passing  the  store,  and  some  one  told  her  about 
it.  People  who  think  she  has  no  heart  and  is  as 
cold  as  stone  ought  to  have  seen  her  that  day.  In 
all  my  life  I  never  saw  such  a  terrible  face  on  a 
human  being.  I  was  actually  afraid  of  her.  She 
was  all  fury  and  all  tenderness  combined.  She  look- 
ed down  at  him  in  all  his  blood  and  bruises  and 
white  face,  and  got  down  on  her  knees  by  him.  I 
saw  a  great  big  sob  rise  up  in  her,  although  her  back 
was  to  me,  and  shake  her  from  head  to  foot,  and 
then  she  was  still,  simply  stroking  back  his  damp, 
tangled  hair.  'My  poor  boy,'  I  heard  her  say,  'you 
can't  fight  my  battles.  God  Himself  has  failed  to 
do  that,  but  I  won't  forget  this — never — never!"' 

"Lord,  that  was  strong!"  said  Masters.  "She 
must  be  wonderful!" 

"She  is  more  wonderful  than  her  narrow-mind- 
ed enemies  dream  of,"  returned  the  store  -  keeper. 
"You  see,  it's  her  pride  that  keeps  her  from  showing 
her  fine  feelings,  and  it's  her  secluded  life  that  makes 
them  misunderstand  her.  Well,  she  brought  her 
wagon  and  took  the  boy  away.  That  was  another 
queer  thing,"  Wilson  added.  "She  evidently  had 
started  to  take  him  to  her  house,  for  she  drove  as 
far  as  the  gate  and  then  stopped  there  to  study  a 
moment,  and  finally  turned  round  and  drove  him 
to  the  poor  cabin  his  folks  lived  in.  You  see,  she 

33 


Ann    Boyd 

was  afraid  that  even  that  would  cause  talk,  and  it 
would.  Old  Jane  Hemingway  would  have  fed  on 
that  morsel  for  months,  as  unreasonable  as  it  would 
have  been.  Ann  sent  a  doctor,  though,  and  every 
delicacy  the  market  afforded,  and  the  boy  was  soon 
out.  It  wasn't  long  afterwards  that  Luke  King 
went  to  college  at  Knoxville,  and  now  he's  away  in 
the  West  somewhere.  His  mother,  after  his  father's 
death,  married  a  trifling  fellow,  Mark  Bruce,  and 
that  brought  on  some  dispute  between  her  and  her 
son,  who  had  tried  to  keep  her  from  marrying  such 
a  man.  They  say  Luke  told  her  if  she  did  marry 
Bruce  he'd  go  away  and  never  even  write  home, 
and  so  far,  they  say,  he  has  kept  his  word.  No- 
body knows  where  he  is  or  what  he's  doing  unless 
it  is  Mrs.  Boyd,  and  she  never  talks.  I  can't  keep 
from  thinking  he's  done  well,  though,  for  he  had  a 
big  head  on  him  and  a  lot  of  determination." 

"And  this  Mrs.  Hemingway,  her  enemy,"  said 
the  drummer,  tentatively,  "you  say  she  was  evi- 
dently the  woman's  rival  at  one  time.  But  it 
seems  she  married  some  one  else." 

"Oh  yes,  she  suddenly  accepted  Tom  Heming- 
way, an  old  bachelor,  who  had  been  trying  to  marry 
her  for  a  long  time.  Most  people  thought  she  did 
it  to  hide  her  feelings  when  Joe  Boyd  got  married. 
She  treated  Tom  like  a  dog,  making  him  do  every- 
thing she  wanted,  and  he  was  daft  about  her  till  he 
died,  just  a  couple  of  weeks  after  his  child  was  born, 
who,  by- the- way,  has  grown  up  to  be  the  prettiest 
girl  in  all  the  country,  and  that's  another  feature 
in  the  story,"  the  store-keeper  smiled.  "You  see, 
Mrs.  Boyd  looks  upon  old  Jane  as  the  prime  cause 

34 


Ann    Boyd 

of  her  losing  her  own  child,  and  I  understand  she 
hates  the  girl  as  much  as  she  does  her  mother." 

A  man  had  come  into  the  store  and  stood  leaning 
against  a  show-case  on  the  side  devoted  to  groceries. 

"There's  a  customer,"  said  the  drummer;  "don't 
let  me  keep  you,  old  man ;  you  know  you've  got  to 
look  at  my  samples  some  time  to-day." 

"Well,  I'll  go  see  what  he  wants,"  said  Wilson, 
"  and  then  I'll  look  through  your  line,  though  I  don't 
feel  a  bit  like  it,  after  losing  the  best  regular  cus- 
tomer I  have." 

The  drummer  had  opened  his  sample-case  on  the 
desk  when  Wilson  came  back. 

"You  say  the  woman's  husband  took  the  child 
away,"  remarked  the  drummer;  "did  he  go  far?" 

"They  first  settled  away  out  in  Texas,"  replied 
Wilson,  "but  Joe  Boyd,  not  having  his  wife's  won- 
derful head  to  guide  him,  failed  at  fanning  there, 
and  only  about  three  years  ago  he  came  back  to 
this  country  and  bought  a  little  piece  of  land  over 
in  Gilmer — the  county  that  joins  this  one." 

"Oh,  so  near  as  that!  Then  perhaps  she  has 
seen  her  daughter  and — " 

"Oh  no,  they've  never  met,"  said  Wilson,  as  he 
took  a  sample  pair  of  men's  suspenders  from  the 
case  and  tested  the  elastic  by  stretching  it  between 
his  hands.  "  I  know  that  for  certain.  She  was  in 
here  one  morning  waiting  for  one  of  her  teams  to 
pass  to  take  her  to  Darley,  when  a  peddler  opened 
his  pack  of  tin-ware  and  tried  to  sell  her  some  pieces 
I  was  out  of.  He  heard  me  call  her  by  name,  and, 
to  be  agreeable,  he  asked  her  if  she  was  any  kin 
to  Joe  Boyd  and  his  daughter,  over  in  Gilmer.  I 

35 


Ann    Boyd 

could  have  choked  the  fool  for  his  stupidity.  I 
tried  to  catch  his  eye  to  warn  him,  but  he  was  in- 
tent on  selling  her  a  bill,  and  took  no  notice  of  any- 
thing else.  I  saw  her  stare  at  him  steady  for  a  second 
or  two,  then  she  seemed  to  swallow  something,  and 
said,  '  No,  they  are  no  kin  of  mine.'  And  then  what 
did  the  skunk  do  but  try  to  make  capital  out  of 
that.  'Well,  you  may  be  glad,'  he  said,  'that  they 
are  no  kin,  for  they  are  as  near  the  ragged  edge  as 
any  folks  I  ever  ran  across.'  He  went  on  to  say  he 
stayed  overnight  at  Boyd's  cabin  and  that  they 
had  hardly  anything  but  streak-o'-lean-streak-o'- 
fat  meat  and  corn-bread  to  offer  him,  and  that 
the  girl  had  the  worst  temper  he'd  ever  seen.  Mrs. 
Boyd,  I  reckon,  to  hide  her  face,  was  looking  at 
some  of  the  fellow's  pans,  and  he  seemed  to  think 
he  was  on  the  right  line,  and  so  he  kept  talking.  Old 
Joe,  he  said,  had  struck  him  as  a  good-natured,  lazy 
sort  of  come-easy-go-easy  mountaineer,  but  the  girl 
looked  stuck  up,  like  she  thought  she  was  some  better 
than  appearances  would  indicate.  He  said  she  was 
a  tall,  gawky  sort  of  girl,  with  no  good  looks  to  brag 
of,  and  he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  see  what  she 
had  to  make  her  so  proud. 

"I  wondered  what  Mrs.  Boyd  was  going  to  do, 
but  she  wras  equal  to  that  emergency,  as  she  always 
has  been  in  everything.  She  held  one  of  his  pans 
up  in  the  light  and  tilted  her  bonnet  back  on  her 
head,  I  thought,  to  let  me  see  she  wasn't  hiding  any- 
thing, and  said,  as  unconcerned  as  if  he'd  never 
mentioned  a  delicate  subject.  '  Look  here,'  she  said, 
thumping  the  bottom  of  the  pan  with  her  finger, 
'if  you  expect  to  do  any  business  with  me  you'll 

36 


Ann    Boyd 

have  to  bring  copper-bottom  ware  to  me.  I  don't 
buy  shoddy  stuff  from  any  one.  These  pans  will 
rust  through  in  two  months.  I'll  take  half  a  dozen, 
but  I'm  only  doing  it  to  pay  you  for  the  time  spent 
on  me.  It  is  a  bad  investment  for  any  one  to  buy 
cheap,  stamped  ware."1 


IV 

\RS.    JANE     HEMINGWAY,    Ann 

Boyd's  long  and  persistent  enemy,  sat 
in  the  passage  which  connected  the 
two  parts  of  her  house,  a  big,  earthern- 
ware  churn  between  her  sharp  knees, 
firmly  raising  and  lowering  the  bespattered  dasher 
with  her  bony  hands.  She  was  a  woman  past  fifty; 
her  neck  was  long  and  slender,  and  the  cords  under 
the  parchment  -  like  skin  had  a  way  of  tightening, 
like  ropes  in  the  seams  of  a  tent,  when  she  swallowed 
or  spoke.  Her  dark,  smoothly  brushed  hair  was 
done  up  in  the  tightest  of  balls  behind  her  head, 
and  her  brown  eyes  were  easily  kindled  to  suspicion, 
fear,  or  anger. 

Her  brother  -  in  -  law,  Sam  Hemingway,  called 
"Hem"  by  his  intimates,  slouched  in  from  the 
broad  glare  of  the  mid-day  sun  and  threw  his  coat 
on  a  chair.  Then  he  went  to  the  shelf  behind  the 
widow,  and,  pouring  some  water  into  a  tin  pan  from 
a  pail,  he  noisily  bathed  his  perspiring  face  and  big, 
red  hands.  As  he  was  drying  himself  on  the  towel 
which  hung  on  a  wooden  roller  on  the  weather- 
boarding  of  the  wall,  Virginia  Hemingway,  his  niece, 
came  in  from  the  field  bringing  a  pail  of  freshly 
gathered  dewberries.  In  appearance  she  was  all 
that  George  Wilson  had  claimed  for  her.  Slightly 

38 


Ann    Boyd 

past  eighteen,  she  had  a  wonderful  complexion,  a 
fine,  graceful  figure,  big,  dreamy,  hazel  eyes,  and 
golden-brown  hair,  and,  which  was  rare  in  one  of  her 
station,  she  was  tastily  dressed.  She  smiled  as  she 
showed  her  uncle  the  berries  and  playfully  "  tickled  " 
him  under  the  chin. 

"See  there!"  she  chuckled. 

"Pies?"  he  said,  with  an  unctuous  grin,  as  he 
peered  down  into  her  pail. 

"I  thought  of  you  while  I  was  gathering  them," 
she  nodded.  "I'm  going  to  try  to  make  them  just 
as  you  like  them,  with  red,  candied  bars  criss- 
crossing." 

"  Nothing  in  the  pie-line  can  hold  a  candle  to  the 
dewberry  unless  it's  the  cherry, ' '  he  chuckled.  "  The 
stones  of  the  cherries  sorter  hold  a  fellow  back,  but 
I  manage  to  make  out.  I  et  a  pie  once  over  at 
Darley  without  a  stone  in  it,  and  you  bet  your  life 
it  was  a  daisy." 

He  went  into  his  room  for  his  tobacco,  and  Vir- 
ginia sat  down  to  stem  her  berries.  He  returned 
in  a  moment,  leaning  in  the  doorway,  drawing  lazily 
at  his  pipe.  The  widow  glanced  up  at  him,  and 
rested  her  dasher  on  the  bottom  of  the  churn. 

"  I  reckon  folks  are  still  talking  about  Ann  Boyd 
and  her  flouncing  out  of  meeting  like  she  did,"  the 
widow  remarked.  "Well,  that  was  funny,  but 
what  was  the  old  thing  to  do?  It  would  take  a 
more  brazen-faced  woman  than  she  is,  if  such  a 
thing  exists,  to  sit  still  and  hear  all  he  said." 

"  Yes,  they  are  still  hammering  at  the  poor  creat- 
ure's back,"  said  Sam,  "and  that's  one  thing  I 
can't  understand,  nuther.  She's  got  dead  loads  of 

39 


Ann    Boyd 

money  —  in  fact,  she's  independent  of  the  whole 
capoodle  of  you  women.  Now,  why  don't  she  kick 
the  dust  o'  this  spot  off  of  her  heels  an'  go  away 
whar  she  can  be  respected,  an',  by  gosh!  be  let  alone 
one  minute  'fore  she  dies.  They  say  she's  the 
smartest  woman  in  the  state,  but  that  don't  show 
it — living  on  here  whar  you  women  kin  throw  a 
rock  at  her  every  time  she  raises  her  head  above 
low  ground." 

"I've  wondered  why  she  don't  go  off,  too,"  the 
widow  said,  as  she  peered  down  at  the  floating 
lumps  of  yellow  butter  in  the  snowy  depths  of  her 
vessel,  and  deftly  twirled  her  dasher  in  her  fingers 
to  make  them  "gather";  "but,  Sam,  haven't  you 
heard  that  persons  always  want  to  be  on  the  spot 
where  they  went  wrong?  I  think  she's  that  way. 
And  when  the  facts  leaked  out  on  her,  and  her  hus- 
band repudiated  her  and  took  the  child  away,  she 
determined  to  stay  here  and  live  it  down.  But 
instead  of  calling  humility  and  submission  to  her 
aid,  she  turned  in  to  stinting  and  starving  to  make 
money,  and  now  she  flaunts  her  prosperity  in  our 
faces,  as  if  that  is  going  to  make  folks  believe  any 
more  in  her.  Money's  too  easily  made  in  evil  ways 
for  Christian  people  to  bow  before  it,  and  posses- 
sions ain't  going  to  keep  such  men  as  Brother 
Bazemore  from  calling  her  down  whenever  she  puts 
on  her  gaudy  finery  and  struts  out  to  meeting.  It 
was  a  bold  thing  for  her  to  do,  anyway,  after  be- 
rating him  as  she  did  when  he  went  to  her  to  get 
the 'use  of  her  grove  for  the  picnic." 

"They  say  she  didn't  know  Bazemore  was  to 
preach  that  day,"  said  Sam.  "She'd  heard  that 

40 


Ann   Boyd 

the  presiding  elder  was  due  here,  and  I'm  of  the 
opinion  that  she  took  that  opportunity  to  show  you 
all  she  wasn't  afraid  to  appear  in  public." 

Virginia  Hemingway  threw  a  handful  of  berry- 
stems  out  into  the  sunshine  in  the  yard.  "She's  a 
queer  woman,"  she  said,  innocently,  "like  a  char- 
acter in  a  novel,  and,  somehow,  I  don't  believe  she 
is  as  bad  as  people  make  her  out.  I  never  told 
either  of  you,  but  I  met  her  yesterday  down  on  the 
road." 

"  You  met  her!"  cried  Mrs.  Hemingway,  aghast. 

"Yes,  she  was  going  home  from  her  sugar -mill 
with  her  apron  full  of  fresh  eggs  that  she'd  found 
down  at  her  hay-stacks,  and  just  as  she  got  close  to 
me  her  dress  got  caught  on  a  snag  and  she  couldn't 
get  it  loose.  I  stopped  and  unfastened  it,  and  she 
actually  thanked  me,  though,  since  I  was  born,  I've 
never  seen  such  a  queer  expression  on  a  human  face. 
She  was  white  and  red  and  dark  as  a  thunder-cloud 
all  at  once.  It  looked  like  she  hated  me,  but  was 
trying  to  be  polite  for  what  I'd  done." 

"You  had  no  business  touching  her  dirty  skirt," 
the  widow  flared  up.  "The  next  thing  you  know 
it  will  go  out  that  you  and  her  are  thick.  It  would 
literally  ruin  a  young  girl  to  be  associated  with  a 
woman  of  that  stamp.  What  en  earth  could  have 
possessed  you  to— 

"Oh,  come  off!"  Sam  laughed.  "Why,  you 
know  you've  always  taught  Virgie  to  be  consider- 
ate of  old  folks,  and  she  was  just  doing  what  she 
ought  to  have  done  for  any  old  nigger  mammy." 

"  I  looked  at  it  that  way,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  I'm 
not  sorry,  for  I  don't  want  her  to  think  I  hate  her, 
4  41 


Ann   Boyd 

for  I  don't.  I  think  she  has  had  a  hard  life,  and  I 
wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  her  out  of  her 
trouble." 

"Virginia,  what  are  you  talking  about?"  cried 
Mrs.  Hemingway.  "The  idea  of  your  standing  up 
for  that  woman,  when — " 

"Well,  Luke  King  used  to  defend  her,"  Virginia 
broke  in,  impulsively,  "and  before  he  went  away 
you  used  to  admit  he  was  the  finest  young  man  in 
the  county.  I've  seen  him  almost  shed  tears  when 
he'd  tell  about  what  she'd  done  for  him,  and  how 
tender-hearted  and  kind  she  was." 

"Tender-hearted  nothing!"  snapped  Mrs.  Hem- 
ingway, under  a  deep  frown.  "  Luke  King  was  the 
only  person  that  went  about  her,  and  she  tried 
to  work  on  his  sympathies  for  some  purpose  or 
other.  Besides,  nobody  knows  what  ever  become 
of  him ;  he  may  have  gone  to  the  dogs  by  this  time ; 
it  looks  like  somebody  would  have  heard  of  him  if 
he  had  come  to  any  good  in  the  five  years  he's  been 
away." 

"Somehow,  I  think  she  knows  where  he  is," 
Virginia  said,  thoughtfully,  as  she  rose  to  put  her 
berries  away. 

When  she  had  gone,  Sam  laughed  softly.  "It's 
a  wonder  to  me  that  Virgie  don't  know  whar  Luke 
is,  herself,"  he  said.  "I  'lowed  once  that  the  fellow 
liked  her  powerful;  but  I  reckon  he  thought  she 
was  too  young,  or  didn't  want  to  take  the  matter 
further  when  he  was  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey  and 
had  no  sort  of  outlook  ahead." 

"  I  sort  o'  thought  that,  too,"  the  widow  ad- 
mitted, "but  I  didn't  want  Virginia  to  encourage 

42 


Ann    Boyd 

him  when  he  was  accepting  so  much  from  that 
woman." 

Sam  laughed  again  as  he  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  pipe  and  cleaned  the  bowl  with  the  tip  of  his 
finger.  "Well,  '  that  woman,'  as  you  call  her,  is  a 
power  in  the  land  that  hates  her,"  he  said.  "She 
knows  how  to  hit  back  from  her  fortress  in  that  old 
farm-house.  George  Wilson  knows  what  it  means 
not  to  stand  by  her  in  public,  so  does  Abe  Longley, 
that  has  to  drive  his  cattle  to  grass  two  miles  over 
the  mountains.  Jim  Johnston,  who  was  dead  sure 
of  renting  her  northeast  field  again  next  year,  has 
been  served  with  a  notice  to  vacate,  and  now,  if 
the  latest  news  can  be  depended  on,  she's  hit  a 
broad  lick  at  half  the  farmers  in  the  valley,  and, 
while  I'm  a  sufferer  with  the  balance,  I  don't  blame 
her  one  bit.  I'd  'a'  done  the  same  pine-blank 
thing  years  ago  if  I'd  stood  in  her  shoes." 

"  What's  she  done  now  ?"  asked  the  woman  at  the 
churn,  leaning  forward  eagerly. 

"Done?  Why,  she  says  she's  tired  o'  footing 
almost  the  entire  wheat-threshing  bill  for  twenty 
measly  little  farmers.  You  know  she's  been  stand- 
ing her  part  of  the  expenses  to  get  the  Empire  Com- 
pany to  send  their  steam  thresher  here,  and  her  con- 
tribution amounted  to  more  than  half.  She's  decided, 
by  hunky,  to  plant  corn  and  cotton  exclusively  next 
year,  and  so  notified  the  Empire  Company.  They 
can't  afford  to  come  unless  she  sows  wheat,  and 
they  sent  a  man  clean  from  Atlanta  to  argue  the 
matter  with  her,  but  she  says  she's  her  own  boss, 
an'  us  farmers  who  has  land  fittin'  for  nothing 
but  wheat  is  going  to  get  badly  left  in  the  lurch. 

43 


Ann   Boyd 

Oh,  Bazemore  opened  the  battle  agin  her,  and 
you-uns  echoed  the  war-cry,  an'  the  battle  is  good 
on.  I'll  go  without  flour  biscuits  and  pie -crust, 
but  the  fight  will  be  interesting.  The  Confed'  sol- 
diers made  a  purty  good  out  along  about  '61,  an' 
they  done  it  barefooted  an'  on  hard- tack  an'  water. 
If  you  folks  are  bent  on  devilling  the  hide  off  of  the 
most  influential  woman  in  our  midst,  just  because 
her  foot  got  caught  in  the  hem  of  her  skirt  an' 
tripped  her  up  when  she  was  a  thoughtless  young 
girl,  I  reckon  us  men  will  have  to  look  on  an'  say 
nothing." 

"She  did  slip  up,  as  you  say,"  remarked  the 
widow,  "and  she's  been  a  raging  devil  ever  since." 

"Ay!  an'  who  made  her  one?  Tell  me  that." 
Sam  laughed.  "You  may  not  want  to  hear  it, 
Jane,  but  some  folks  hint  that  you  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it — some  think  lazy  Joe  Boyd  would  have 
stayed  on  in  that  comfortable  boat,  with  a  firm 
hand  like  hern  at  the  rudder,  if  you  hadn't  ding- 
donged  at  him  and  told  tales  to  him  till  he  had  to 
pull  out." 

"Huh!  They  say  that,  do  they?"  The  widow 
frowned  as  she  turned  and  looked  straight  at  him. 
"Well,  let  'em.  What  do  I  care?  I  didn't  want 
to  see  as  good -hearted  a  man  as  he  was  hood- 
winked." 

"I  reckon  not,"  Sam  said,  significantly,  and  he 
walked  out  of  the  passage  down  towards  the  barn. 
"Huh!"  he  mused,  as  he  strode  along  crumbling 
leaf -tobacco  of  his  own  growing  and  filling  his  pipe. 
"  I  come  as  nigh  as  pease  tellin'  the  old  woman 
some'n'  else  folks  say,  an'  that  is  that  she  was  purty 

44 


Ann    Boyd 

nigh  daft  about  Joe  Boyd,  once  upon  a  time,  and 
that  dashing  Ann  cut  her  out  as  clean  as  a  whistle. 
I'll  bet  that  'ud  make  my  sister-in-law  so  dern  hot 
she'd  blister  from  head  to  foot." 


V 


afternoon  Jane  Hemingway  went 
i  out  to  the  barn  -  yard.  For  years 
i  she  had  cultivated  a  habit  of  going 
thither,  obviously  to  look  after  cer- 
,tam  hens  that  nested  there,  but  in  re- 
ality, though  she  would  not  have  admitted  it  even 
to  herself,  she  went  because  from  that  coign  of 
vantage  she  could  look  across  her  enemy's  fertile 
acres  right  into  the  lone  woman's  doorway  and 
sometimes  catch  a  glimpse  of  Ann  at  work.  There 
was  one  unpleasant  contingency  that  she  sometimes 
allowed  her  mind  to  dwell  upon,  and  that  was  that 
Joe  Boyd  and  his  now  grown  daughter  might,  in- 
asmuch as  Ann's  wealth  and  power  were  increasing 
in  direct  ratio  to  the  diminution  of  their  own,  event- 
ually sue  for  pardon  and  return.  That  had  become 
Jane's  nightmare,  riding  her  night  and  day,  and  she 
was  not  going  to  let  any  living  soul  know  the 
malicious  things  she  had  done  and  said  to  thwart 
it.  Vaguely  she  regarded  the  possible  coming-back 
of  the  father  and  daughter  as  her  own  undoing. 
She  knew  the  pulse  of  the  community  well  enough 
to  understand  that  nothing  could  happen  which 
would  so  soon  end  the  war  against  Ann  Boyd  as 
such  a  reconciliation.  Yes,  it  would  amount  to  her 
own  undoing,  for  people  were  like  sheep,  and  the 

46 


Ann   Boyd 

moment  one  ran  to  Ann  Boyd's  side  in  approval,  all 
would  flock  around  her,  and  it  would  only  be  natural 
for  them  to  turn  against  the  one  woman  who  had 
been  the  primal  cause  of  the  separation. 

Jane  was  at  the  bars  looking  out  on  a  little,  sel- 
dom -  used  road  which  ran  between  her  land  and 
Ann's,  when  her  attention  was  caught  by  a  man 
with  a  leather  hand-bag  strapped  on  his  shoulders 
trudging  towards  her.  He  was  a  stranger,  and 
his  dusty  boots  and  trousers  showed  that  he  had 
walked  a  long  distance.  As  he  drew  near  he  took 
off  his  straw  hat  and  bowed  very  humbly,  allowing 
his  burden  to  swing  round  in  front  of  him  till  he 
had  eased  it  down  on  the  turf  at  his  feet. 

"Good-evening,  madam,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to 
show  you  something  if  you've  got  the  time  to  spare. 
I've  made  so  many  mountain  folks  happy,  and  at 
such  a  small  outlay,  that  I  tell  you  they  are  glad 
to  have  me  come  around  again.  This  is  a  new  beat 
to  me,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  widen  out  some  in 
the  cause  of  human  suffering." 

"What  is  it  you've  got?"  Jane  asked,  smiling  at 
his  manner  of  speaking,  as  he  deftly  unlocked  his 
valise  and  opened  it  out  before  her. 

"It's  a  godsend,  and  that's  no  joke,"  said  the 
peddler.  "  I've  got  a  household  liniment  here  at  a 
quarter  for  a  four-ounce  flask  that  no  family  can 
afford  to  be  without.  You  may  think  I'm  just  talk- 
ing because  it's  my  business,  but,  madam,  do  you 
know  that  the  regular  druggists  all  about  over  this 
country  are  in  a  combine  not  to  sell  stuff  that  will 
keep  people  in  good  trim?  And  why?  you  may 
ask  me.  Why?  Because,  I  say,  that  it  would  kill 

47 


Ann   Boyd 

the'r  business.  Go  to  one,  I  dare  you,  or  to  a  doc- 
tor in  regular  practice,  and  they  will  mix  up  chalk 
and  sweetened  water  and  tell  you  you've  got  a 
serious  internal  complaint,  and  to  keep  coming  day 
after  day  till  your  pile  is  exhausted,  and  then  they 
may  tell  you  the  truth  and  ask  you  to  let  'em  alone. 
I  couldn't  begin,  madam — I  don't  know  your  name 
—I  say  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  the  wonderful 
cures  this  liniment  has  worked  all  over  this  part  of 
the  state." 

"What  is  it  good  for?"  Jane  Hemingway's  face 
had  grown  suddenly  serious.  The  conversation  had 
caused  her  thoughts  to  revert  to  a  certain  secret 
fear  she  had  entertained  for  several  months. 

"Huh — good  for? — excuse  me,  but  you  make  rne 
laugh,"  the  peddler  said,  as  he  held  a  bottle  of  the 
dark  fluid  up  before  her;  "it's  good  for  so  many 
things  that  I  could  hardly  get  through  telling  you 
between  now  and  sundown.  It's  good  for  anything 
that  harms  the  blood,  skin,  or  muscles.  It's  even 
good  for  the  stomach,  although  I  don't  advise  it 
taken  internally,  for  when  it's  rubbed  on  the  out- 
side of  folks  they  have  perfect  digestions ;  but  what 
it  is  best  for  is  sprains,  lameness,  or  any  skin  or 
blood  eruption.  Do  you  know,  madam,  that  you'd 
never  hear  of  so  many  cancers  and  tumors,  that  are 
dragging  weary  folks  to  early  graves  hereabouts,  if 
this  medicine  had  been  used  in  time?" 

"Cancer?"  The  widow's  voice  had  fallen,  and 
she  looked  towards  Ann  Boyd's  house,  and  then 
more  furtively  over  her  shoulder  towards  her  own, 
as  if  to  be  sure  of  not  being  observed.  "That's 
what  I've  always  wondered  at,  how  is  anybody  to 

48 


Ann   Boyd 

know  whether  a — a  thing  is  a  cancer  or  not  with- 
out going  to  a  doctor,  and,  as  you  say,  even  then  they 
may  not  tell  you  the  truth  ?  Mrs.  Twiggs,  over  the 
mountain,  was  never  let  know  she  had  her  cancer 
till  a  few  months  before  it  carried  her  off.  The 
family  and  the  doctor  never  told  her  the  truth. 
The  doctor  said  it  couldn't  be  cured,  and  to  know 
would  only  make  the  poor  thing  brood  over  it  and 
be  miserable." 

"That's  it,  now,"  said  the  medicine-vender;  "but 
if  it  had  been  taken  at  the  start  and  rubbed  vig- 
orously night  and  morning,  it  would  have  melted 
away  under  this  fluid  like  dirt  under  lye-soap  and 
warm  water.  Madam,  a  cancer  is  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  bad  circulation  at  a  certain  point 
where  blood  stands  till  it  becomes  foul  and  putre- 
fies. I  can — excuse  me  if  I  seem  bold,  but  long 
experience  in  handling  men  and  women  has  learnt 
me  to  understand  human  nature.  Most  people  who 
are  afraid  they've  got  cancers  generally  show  it 
on  their  faces,  an'  I'll  bet  my  hat  and  walk  bare- 
headed to  the  nighest  store  to  get  another  that  you 
are  troubled  on  that  line — a  little  bit,  anyway." 

Jane  made  no  denial,  though  her  thin  face  worked 
as  she  strove  adequately  to  meet  his  blunt  asser- 
tion. "As  I  said  just  now" — she  swallowed,  and 
avoided  his  covetous  glance — "how  is  a  person 
really  to  know  ?" 

"It's  a  mighty  easy  matter  for  me  to  tell,"  said 
the  peddler,  and  he  spoke  most  reassuringly.  "  Just 
you  let  me  take  a  look  at  the  spot,  if  it's  no  trouble 
to  you,  and  I  may  save  you  a  good  many  sleepless 
nights.  You  are  a  nervous,  broody  sort  of  a  wom- 

49 


Ann    Boyd 

an  yourself,  and  I  can  see  by  your  face  that  you've 
let  this  matter  bother  you  a  lots." 

"You  think  you  could  tell  if  you — you  looked  at 
it?"  Jane  asked,  tremulously. 

"Well,  if  I  didn't  it  would  be  the  first  case  I 
ever  diagnosed  improperly.  Couldn't  we  go  in  the 
house?" 

Jane  hesitated.  "  I  think  I'd  rather  my  folks 
didn't  know — that  is,  of  course,  if  it  is  one.  My 
brother-in-law  is  a  great  hand  to  talk,  and  I'd  rather 
it  wasn't  noised  about.  If  there's  one  thing  in  the 
world  I  don't  like  it's  the  pity  and  the  curiosity  of 
other  folks  as  to  just  about  how  long  I'm  going  to 
hold  out." 

"  I've  seed  a  lots  o'  folks  like  you."  The  peddler 
smiled.  "  But,  if  you  don't  mind  tellin',  where 's 
the  thing  located?" 

"It's  on  my  breast,"  Jane  gulped,  undecidedly, 
and  then,  the  first  bridge  having  been  crossed,  she 
unbuttoned  her  dress  at  the  neck  with  fumbling 
fingers  and  pulled  it  down.  "Maybe  you  can  see 
as  well  here  as  anywhere." 

"Oh  yes,  never  was  a  better  light  for  the  busi- 
ness," said  the  vender,  and  he  leaned  forward,  his 
eyes  fixed  sharply  on  the  spot  exposed  between 
the  widow's  bony  fingers.  For  a  moment  he  said 
nothing.  The  woman's  yellow  breast  lay  flat  and 
motionless.  She  scarcely  breathed;  her  features 
were  fixed  by  grim,  fearful  expectancy.  He  looked 
away  from  her,  and  then  stooped  to  his  pack  to  get 
a  larger  bottle.  "  I'm  glad  I  happened  to  strike 
you  just  when  I  did,  madam,"  he  said.  "Thar 
ain't  no  mistaking  the  characteristics  of  a  cancer 

50 


Ann    Boyd 

when  it's  in  its  first  stages.  That's  certainly  what 
you've  got,  but  I'm  telling  you  God's  holy  truth 
when  I  say  that  by  regular  application  and  rubbing 
this  stuff  in  for  a  month,  night  and  morning,  that 
thing  will  melt  away  like  mist  before  a  hot  sun." 

"  So  it  really  is  one!"  Jane  breathed,  despondently. 

"Yes,  it's  a  little  baby  one,  madani,  but  this  will 
nip  it  in  the  bud  and  save  your  life.  It  will  take 
the  dollar  size,  but  you  know  it's  worth  it." 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  take  it,"  Jane  panted.  "Put  it 
there  in  the  fence-corner  among  the  weeds,  and  I'll 
come  out  to-night  and  get  it." 

"All  right,"  and  the  flask  tinkled  against  a  stone 
as  it  slid  into  its  snug  hiding-place  among  the 
Jamestown  weeds  nestling  close  to  the  rotting  rails. 

"Here's  your  money.  I  reckon  we'd  better  not 
stand  here."  And  Jane  gave  it  to  him  with  quiv- 
ering fingers.  He  folded  the  bill  carefully,  thrust 
it  into  a  greasy  wallet,  and  stooped  to  close  his 
bag  and  throw  the  strap  over  his  shoulder. 

"Now  I'm  going  on  to  the  next  house,"  he  said. 
"They  tell  me  a  curious  sort  of  human  specimen 
lives  over  thar  —  old  Ann  Boyd.  Do  you  know, 
madam,  I  heard  of  that  woman's  tantrums  at 
Springtown  night  before  last,  and  at  Darley  yester- 
day. Looks  like  you  folks  hain't  got  much  else  to 
do  but  poke  at  her  like  a  turtle  on  its  back.  Well, 
she  must  be  a  character!  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd 
take  a  peep  at  'er.  You  know  a  travelling  physician 
like  I  am  can  get  at  folks  that  sort  o'  hide  from  the 
general  run." 

Jane  Hemingway's  heart  sank.  Why  had  it  not 
occurred  to  her  that  he  might  go  on  to  Ann  Boyd's 


Ann    Boyd 

and  actually  reveal  her  affliction?  Such  men 
had  no  honor  or  professional  reputation  to  defend. 
Suddenly  she  was  chilled  from  head  to  foot  by  the 
thought  that  the  peddler  might  even  boast  of  her 
patronage  to  secure  that  of  her  neighbor — that  was 
quite  the  method  of  all  such  persons.  It  was  on 
her  tongue  actually  to  ask  him  not  to  go  to  Ann 
Boyd's  house  at  all,  but  her  better  judgment  told 
her  that  such  a  request  would  unduly  rouse  the 
man's  curiosity,  so  she  offered  a  feeble  compromise. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  I  want  it  understood  be- 
tween us  that — that  you  are  to  tell  nobody  about 
me — about  my  trouble.  That  woman  over  there 
is  at  outs  with  all  her  neighbors,  and — and  she'd 
only  be  glad  to — " 

Jane  saw  her  error  too  late.  It  appeared  to  her 
now  in  the  bland  twinkle  of  amused  curiosity  in  the 
stranger's  face. 

"I  understand  —  I  understand;  you  needn't  be 
afraid  of  me/'  the  man  said,  entirely  too  lightly, 
Jane  thought,  for  such  a  grave  matter,  and  he 
pushed  back  the  brim  of  his  hat  and  turned.  "Re- 
member the  directions,  madam,  a  good  brisk  rub- 
bing with  a  flannel  rag  —  red  if  you've  got  it  — 
soaked  in  the  medicine,  twice  a  day.  Good-even- 
ing; I'll  be  off.  I've  got  to  strike  some  house  whar 
they  will  let  me  stay  all  night.  I  know  that  old 
hag  won't  keep  me,  from  all  I  hear." 

The  widow  leaned  despondently  against  the  fence 
and  watched  him  as  he  ploughed  his  way  through 
the  tall  grass  and  weeds  of  the  intervening  marsh 
towards  Ann  Boyd's  house.  The  assurance  that  the 
spot  on  her  breast  was  an  incipient  cancer  was  bad 

52 


Ann    Boyd 

enough  without  the  added  fear  that  her  old  enemy 
would  possibly  gloat  over  her  misfortune.  She  re- 
mained there  till  she  saw  the  vender  approach  Ann's 
door.  For  a  moment  she  entertained  the  mild  hope 
that  he  would  be  repulsed,  but  he  was  not. 

She  saw  Ann's  portly  form  framed  in  the  door- 
way for  an  instant,  and  then  the  peddler  opened 
the  gate  and  went  into  the  house.  Heavy  of  heart, 
the  grim  watcher  remained  at  the  fence  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  the  medicine- vender  came  out  and 
wended  his  way  along  the  dusty  road  towards  Wil- 
son's store. 

Jane  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down  wearily. 
Virginia  was  sewing  at  a  western  window,  and 
glanced  at  her  in  surprise. 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?"  she  inquired,  solic- 
itously. 

"I  don't  know  as  there  is  anything  wrong,"  an- 
swered Jane,  "but  I  am  sort  o'  weak.  My  knees 
shake  and  I  feel  kind  o'  chilly.  Sometimes,  Vir- 
ginia, I  think  maybe  I  won't  last  long." 

"That's  perfectly  absurd,"  said  the  girl.  "Don't 
you  remember  what  Dr.  Evans  said  last  winter  when 
he  was  talking  about  the  constitutions  of  people? 
He  said  you  belonged  to  the  thin,  wiry,  raw-boned 
kind  that  never  die,  but  simply  stay  on  and  dry  up 
till  they  are  finally  blown  away." 

"He's  not  a  graduated  doctor,"  said  Jane,  gloom- 
ily. "He  doesn't  know  everything." 


VI 

WEEK  from  that  day,  one  sultry- 
afternoon  near  sunset,  a  tall  moun- 
taineer, very  poorly  clad,  and  his  wife 
came  past  Wilson's  store.  They  paused 
to  purchase  a  five-cent  plug  of  tobacco, 
and  then  walked  slowly  along  the  road  in  a  dust 
that  rose  as  lightly  as  down  at  the  slightest  foot- 
fall, till  they  reached  Ann  Boyd's  house. 

"I'll  stay  out  here  at  the  gate,"  the  man  said. 
"  You'll  have  to  do  all  the  talking.  As  Willard  said, 
she  will  do  more  for  Luke  King's  mother  than  she 
would  for  anybody  else,  and  you  remember  how  she 
backed  the  boy  up  in  his  objections  to  me  as  a 
step-daddy." 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  the  woman  said,  plain- 
tively. "You  stay  here  behind  the  bushes.  I 
don't  blame  you  for  not  wanting  to  ask  a  favor  of 
her,  after  all  she  said  when  we  were  married.  She 
may  spit  in  my  face — they  say  she's  so  cantanker- 
ous." 

Seating  himself  on  a  flat  stone,  the  man  cut  the 
corner  off  of  his  tobacco-plug  and  began  to  chew  it, 
while  his  wife,  a  woman  about  sixty-five  years  of 
age,  and  somewhat  enfeebled,  opened  the  gate  and 
went  in.  Mrs.  Boyd  answered  the  gentle  rap  and 
appeared  at  the  door. 

54 


Ann    Boyd 

"Howdy  do,  Mrs.  Boyd,"  the  caller  began.  "I 
reckon  old  age  hasn't  changed  me  so  you  won't 
know  me,  although  it's  been  ten  years  since  me  'n' 
you  met.  I'm  Mrs.  Mark  Bruce,  that  used  to  be 
Mrs.  King.  I'm  Luke's  mother,  Mrs.  Boyd." 

"  I  knew  you  when  you  and  Mark  Bruce  turned 
the  bend  in  the  road  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,"  said 
Ann,  sharply,  "but,  the  Lord  knows,  I  didn't  think 
you'd  have  the  cheek  to  open  my  front  gate  and 
stalk  right  into  my  yard  after  all  you've  said  and 
done  against  me." 

The  eyes  of  the  visitor  fell  to  her  worn  shoe, 
through  which  her  bare  toes  were  protruding.  "  I 
had  no  idea  I'd  ever  do  such  a  thing  myself  until 
about  two  hours  ago,"  she  said,  firmly;  "but  folks 
will  do  a  lots,  in  a  pinch,  that  they  won't  ordinarily. 
You  may  think  I've  come  to  beg  you  to  tell  me  if 
you  know  where  Luke  is,  but  I  hain't.  Of  course, 
I'd  like  to  know — any  mother  would — but  he  said 
he'd  never  darken  a  door  that  his  step-father  went 
through,  and  I  told  'im,  I  did,  that  he  could  go,  and 
I'd  never  ask  about  'im.  Some  say  you  get  letters 
from  him.  I  don't  know — that,  I  reckon,  is  your 
business." 

"You  didn't  come  to  inquire  about  your  boy, 
then?"  Ann  said,  curiously,  "and  yet  here  you  are." 

"It's  about  your  law-suit  with  Gus  Willard  that 
I've  come,  Ann.  He  told  you,  it  seems,  that  he 
was  going  to  fight  it  to  the  bitter  end,  and  he  did 
call  in  a  lawyer,  but  the  lawyer  told  him  thar  was  no 
two  ways  about  it.  If  his  mill-pond  backed  water 
on  your  land  to  the  extent  of  covering  five  acres, 
why,  you  could  make  him  shet  the  mill  up,  even  if 

55 


Ann    Boyd 

he  lost  all  his  custom.  Gus  sees  different  now,  like 
most  of  us  when  our  substance  is  about  to  take  wings 
and  fly  off.  He  sees  now  that  you've  been  powerful 
indulgent  all  them  years  in  letting  him  back  water 
on  your  property  to  its  heavy  damagement,  and  he 
says,  moreover,  that,  to  save  his  neck  from  the 
halter,  he  cayn't  blame  you  fer  the  action.  He 
says  he  did  uphold  Brother  Bazemore  in  what  he 
said  about  burning  the  bench  that  was  consecrated 
till  you  besmirched  it,  and  he  admits  he  talked  it 
here  an'  yan  considerably.  He  said,  an'  Gus  was 
mighty  nigh  shedding  tears,  in  the  sad  plight  he's 
in,  that  you  had  the  whip  in  hand  now,  and  that 
his  back  was  bare,  an'  ef  you  chose  to  lay  on  the 
lash,  why,  he  was  powerless,  for,  said  he,  he  struck 
the  fust  lick  at  you,  but  he  was  doin'  it,  he  thought, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  community." 

"But,"  and  the  eyes  of  Ann  Boyd  flashed  omi- 
nously, "what  have  you  come  for?  Not,  surely,  to 
stand  in  my  door  and  preach  to  me." 

"Oh  no,  Ann,  that  hain't  it,"  said  the  caller, 
calmly.  "  You  see,  Gus  is  at  the  end  of  his  tether ; 
he's  in  an  awful  fix  with  his  wife  and  gals  in  tears, 
and  he's  plumb  desperate.  He  says  you  hain't  the 
kind  of  woman  to  be  bent  one  way  or  another  by 
begging — that  is,  when  you  are  a-dealing  with  folks 
that  have  been  out  open  agin  you;  but  now,  as  it 
stands,  this  thing  is  agoing  to  damage  me  and 
Mark  awfully,  fer  Mark  gets  five  dollars  a  month  for 
helping  about  the  mill  on  grinding  days,  and  when 
the  mill  shets  down  he'll  be  plumb  out  of  a  job." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  and  Ann  Boyd  smiled  impulsively. 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  of  it,"  went  on  Mrs.  Bruce, 

56 


Ann    Boyd 

"and  so  Gus,  about  two  hours  ago,  come  over  to 
our  cabin  with  what  he  called  his  only  hope,  and 
that  was  for  me  to  come  and  tell  you  about  Mark's 
job,  and  how  helpless  we'll  be  when  it's  gone,  and 
that — well,  Ann,  to  put  it  in  Gus's  own  words,  he 
said  you  wouldn't  see  Luke  King's  mother  suffer 
as  I  will  have  to  suffer,  for,  Ann,  we  are  having  the 
hardest  time  to  get  along  in  the  world.  I  was  at 
meeting  that  day,  and  I  thought  what  Bazemore 
said  was  purty  hard  on  any  woman,  but  I  was  mad 
at  you,  and  so  I  set  and  listened.  I'm  no  coward. 
If  you  do  this  thing  you'll  do  it  of  your  own  accord. 
I  cayn't  get  down  on  my  knees  to  you,  and  I  won't." 

"I  see."  Ann's  face  was  serious.  She  looked 
past  the  woman  down  the  dust-clouded  road  along 
which  a  man  was  driving  a  herd  of  sheep.  "  I  don't 
want  you  on  your  knees  to  me,  Cynthia  Bruce.  I 
want  simple  justice.  I  was  doing  the  best  I  could 
when  Bazemore  and  the  community  began  to  drive 
me  to  the  wall,  then  I  determined  to  have  my  rights 
—that's  all ;  I'll  have  my  legal  rights  for  a  while  and 
see  what  impression  it  will  make  on  you  all.  You 
can  tell  Gus  Willard  that  I  will  give  him  till  the  first 
of  July  to  drain  the  water  from  my  land,  and  if  he 
doesn't  do  it  he  will  regret  it." 

"That's  all  you'll  say,  then?"  said  the  woman  at 
the  step. 

"That's  all  I'll  say." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  are  right,  Ann  Boyd.  I 
sorter  begin  to  see  what  you've  been  put  to  all  on 
account  of  that  one  false  step  away  back  when,  I 
reckon,  like  all  gals,  you  was  jest  1'arnin'  what  life 
was.  Well,  as  that's  over  and  done  with,  I  wonder 
s  57 


Ann    Boyd 

if  you  would  mind  telling  me  if  you  know  anything 
about  Luke.  Me  'n'  him  split  purty  wide  before  he 
left,  and  I  try  to  be  unconcerned  about  him,  but  I 
cayn't.  I  lie  awake  at  night  thinking  about  him. 
You  see,  all  the  rest  of  my  children  are  around  me." 

"I'll  say  this  much,"  said  Ann,  in  a  softened  tone, 
"and  that  is  that  he  is  well  and  doing  well,  but  I 
don't  feel  at  liberty  to  say  more." 

"Well,  it's  a  comfort  to  know  that  much,"  said 
Mrs.  Bruce,  softly.  "And  it's  nothing  but  just  to 
you  for  me  to  say  that  it's  due  to  you.  The  educa- 
tion you  paid  fer  is  what  gave  him  his  start  in  life, 
and  I'll  always  be  grateful  to  you  fer  it.  It  was 
something  I  never  could  have  given  him,  and  some- 
thing none  of  the  rest  of  my  children  got." 

Mrs.  Boyd  stood  motionless  in  the  door,  her  eyes 
on  the  backs  of  the  pathetic  pair  as  they  trudged 
slowly  homeward,  the  red  sunset  like  a  world  in 
conflagration  beyond  them. 

"Yes,  she's  the  boy's  mother,"  she  mused,  "and 
the  day  will  come  when  Luke  will  be  glad  I  helped 
her,  as  he  would  if  he  could  see  the  poor  thing  now. 
Gus  Willard  is  no  mean  judge  of  human  nature. 
I'll  let  him  stew  awhile,  but  the  mill  may  run  on. 
I  can't  fight  everybody.  Gus  Willard  is  my  enemy, 
but  he's  open  and  aboveboard. 


VII 


morning  about  the  first  of  May, 
Virginia  Hemingway  went  to  Wil- 
son's store  to  purchase  some  sewing- 
thread  she  needed.  The  long,  narrow 
room  was  crowded  with  farmers  and 
mountaineers,  and  Wilson  had  called  in  several 
neighbors  to  help  him  show  and  sell  his  wares. 
Langdon  Chester  was  there,  a  fine  double-barrelled 
shot-gun  and  fishing-rod  under  his  arm,  wearing  a 
slouch  hat  and  hunter's  suit,  his  handsome  face  well 
tanned  by  exposure  to  the  sun  in  the  field  and  on 
the  banks  of  the  mountain  streams.  He  was  buy- 
ing a  reel  and  a  metallic  fly  that  worked  with  a 
spring  and  was  set  like  a  trap.  Fred  Masters  was 
there,  lounging  about  behind  the  counters,  and  now 
and  then  "making  a  sale"  of  some  small  article 
from  the  shelves  or  show-cases.  He  had  opened  his 
big  sample  trunks  at  the  hotel  in  Springtown,  half 
a  mile  distant,  and  a  buggy  and  pair  of  horses  were 
at  the  door,  with  which  he  intended  to  transport  the 
store- keeper  to  his  sample-room  as  soon  as  business 
became  quieter.  Seeing  the  store  so  crowded,  Vir- 
ginia only  looked  in  at  the  door  and  walked  across 
the  street  and  sat  down  in  Mrs.  Wilson's  sitting- 
room  to  rest  and  wait  for  a  better  opportunity  to  get 
what  she  had  come  for. 

59 


Ann   Boyd 

Langdon  Chester  had  recognized  an  old  school- 
mate in  the  drummer,  but  he  seemed  not  to  care  to 
show  marked  cordiality.  However,  the  travelling 
man  was  no  stickler  for  formality.  He  came  from 
behind  the  counter  and  cordially  slapped  Langdon 
on  the  shoulder.  "How  are  you,  old  chap?"  he 
asked;  "still  rusticating  on  the  old  man's  bounty, 
eh  ?  When  you  left  college  you  were  going  into  the 
law,  and  soar  like  an  eagle  with  the  worm  of  Liberty 
in  its  beak  skyward  through  the  balmy  air  of  politics, 
by  the  aid  of  all  the  'pulls'  of  influential  kin  and 
money,  but  here  you  are  as  easy-going  as  of  old." 

"  It  was  the  only  thing  open  to  me,"  Chester  said, 
with  a  flush  of  vexation.  "You  see,  my  father's 
getting  old,  Masters,  and  the  management  of  our  big 
place  here  was  rather  too  much  for  him,  and  so — " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  And  the  drummer  gave  his  old 
friend  a  playful  thumb-thrust  in  the  ribs.  "And 
so  you  are  helping  him  out  with  that  gun  and 
rod?  Well,  that's  one  way  of  doing  business,  but 
it  is  far  from  my  method  —  the  method  that  is 
forced  on  me,  my  boy.  When  you  get  to  a  town 
on  the  four-o'clock  afternoon  train  and  ha.ve  to 
get  five  sample  trunks  from  the  train  to  a  hotel, 
scrap  like  the  devil  over  who  gets  to  use  the  best 
sample  -  room,  finally  buy  your  way  in  through 
porters  as  rascally  as  you  are,  then  unpack,  see 
the  best  man  in  town,  sell  him,  or  lose  your  job, 
pack  again,  trunks  to  excess-baggage  scales — more 
cash  and  tips,  and  lies  as  to  weight  —  and  you 
roll  away  at  midnight  and  try  to  nap  sitting  bolt- 
upright  in  the  smoker — well,  I  say,  you  won't  find 
that  sort  of  thing  in  the  gun-and-fishing-pole  line. 

60 


Ann   Boyd 

It's  the  sort  of  work,  Chester,  that  will  make  you 
wish  you  were  dead.  Good  Lord,  I  don't  blame  you 
one  bit.  In  England  they  would  call  you  one  of  the 
gentry,  and,  being  an  only  son,  you  could  tie  up 
with  an  heiress  and  so  on  to  a  green  old  age  of  high 
respectability;  but  as  for  me,  well,  I  had  to  dig, 
and  I  went  in  for  it." 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  would  ever  become  a  drum- 
mer," Langdon  said,  as  he  admired  his  friend's  at- 
tire. Such  tasty  ties,  shirts,  and  bits  of  jewelry 
that  Masters  wore,  and  such  well  brushed  and 
pressed  clothes  were  rarely  seen  in  the  country,  and 
Langdon  still  had  the  good  ideas  of  dress  he  had 
brought  from  college,  and  this  was  one  extravagance 
his  father  cheerfully  allowed  him. 

"It  seemed  the  best  thing  for  me,"  smiled  the 
drummer.  "I  have  a  cousin  who  is  a  big  stock- 
holder in  my  house,  and  he  got  the  job  for  me.  I've 
been  told  several  times  by  other  members  of  the 
firm  that  I'd  have  been  fired  long  ago  but  for  that 
family  pull.  I've  made  several  mistakes,  sold  men 
who  were  rotten  to  the  core,  and  caused  the  house 
to  lose  money  in  several  instances,  and,  well — poker, 
old  man.  Do  you  still  play  ?" 

"Not  often,  out  here,"  said  Langdon;  "this  is 
about  the  narrowest,  church-going  community  you 
ever  struck.  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  fun 
travelling  about." 

"Oh  yes,  fun  enough,  of  its  kind."  Masters 
laughed.  "  Like  a  sailor  in  every  port,  a  drummer 
tries  to  have  a  sweetheart  in  every  town.  It  makes 
life  endurable ;  sometimes  the  dear  little  things  meet 
you  at  the  train  with  sweet-smelling  flowers  and 

61 


Ann    Boyd 

embroidered  neckties  so  long  that  you  have  to  cut 
off  the  ends  or  double  them.  Have  a  cigar — they 
don't  cost  me  a  red  cent;  expense  account  stretches 
like  elastic,  you  know.  My  house  kicked  once 
against  my  drinking  and  cigar  entries,  and  I  said, 
all  right,  I'd  sign  the  pledge  and  they  could  tie  a 
blue  ribbon  on  me,  if  they  said  the  word,  but  that 
half  my  trade,  I'd  discovered,  never  could  see  prices 
right  except  through  smoke  and  over  a  bottle. 
Then,  what  do  you  think?  Old  man  Creighton, 
head  of  the  firm,  deacon  in  a  swell  joss-house  in 
Atlanta,  winked,  drew  a  long  face,  and  said:  'You'll 
have  to  give  the  boy  some  freedom,  I  reckon.  We 
are  in  this  thing  to  pull  it  through,  boys,  and  some- 
times we  may  have  to  fight  fire  with  fire  or  be  left 
stranded.'" 

"He's  an  up-to-date  old  fellow,"  Chester  laughed. 
"  I've  seen  him.  He  owns  some  fine  horses.  When 
a  man  does  that  he's  apt  to  be  progressive,  no  matter 
how  many  times  he  says  his  prayers  a  day." 

"Yes,  for  an  old  duck,  Creighton  keeps  at  the 
head  of  the  procession.  I  can  generally  get  him  to 
help  me  out  when  I  get  in  a  tight.  He  thinks  I'm 
a  good  salesman.  Once,  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth, 
I  sold  the  champion  bill  in  the  history  of  the  house. 
A  new  firm  was  setting  up  in  business  in  Augusta, 
and  I  stocked  three  floors  for  them.  It  tickled  old 
man  Creighton  nearly  to  death,  for  they  say  he 
walked  the  floor  all  night  when  the  thing  was  hang- 
ing fire.  There  was  a  pile  of  profit  in  it,  and  it 
meant  more,  even,  than  the  mere  sale,  for  Nashville, 
Memphis,  New  Orleans,  and  Louisville  men  were  as 
thick  as  flies  on  the  spot.  When  I  wired  the  news 

62 


Ann    Boyd 

in  the  firm  did  a  clog-dance  in  the  office,  and  they 
were  all  at  the  train  to  meet  me,  with  plug-hats  on, 
and  raised  sand  generally.  Old  Creighton  drew  me 
off  to  one  side  and  wanted  to  know  how  I  did  it.  I 
told  him  it  was  just  a  trick  of  mine,  and  tried  to 
let  it  go  at  that,  but  he  pushed  me  close,  and  I 
finally  told  him  the  truth.  It  came  about  over  a 
game  of  poker  I  was  playing  with  the  head  of  the 
new  firm.  If  I  lost  I  was  to  pay  him  a  hundred 
dollars.  If  he  lost  I  was  to  get  the  order.  He  lost. 
I  think  I  learned  that  'palming'  trick  from  you." 

Langdon  laughed  impulsively  as  he  lighted  the 
drummer's  cigar.  "  And  what  did  the  old  man  say 
to  that?"  he  inquired. 

"It  almost  floored  him."  Masters  smiled.  "He 
laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  His  face  was  as 
serious  as  I've  seen  it  when  he  was  praying  in  the 
amen  corner  at  church,  but  the  old  duck's  eyes  were 
blazing.  'Fred,'  he  said,  'I  want  you  to  promise 
me  to  let  that  one  thing  alone — but,  good  gracious, 
if  Memphis  had  sold  that  bill  it  would  have  hurt  us 
awfully!'" 

"You  were  always  fond  of  the  girls,"  Chester  re- 
marked as  he  smoked.  "Well,  out  here  in  the 
country  is  no  place  for  them." 

"  No  place  for  them!  Huh,  that's  your  idea,  is  it? 
Well,  let  me  tell  you,  Chester,  I  saw  on  the  road  as 
I  came  on  just  now  simply  the  prettiest,  daintiest, 
and  most  graceful  creature  I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on. 
I've  seen  them  all,  too,  and,  by  George,  she  simply 
took  the  rag  off  the  bush.  Slender,  beautifully 
formed,  willowy,  small  feet  and  hands,  high  instep, 
big,  dreamy  eyes,  and  light-brown  hair  touched  with 

63 


Ann    Boyd 

gold.  She  came  out  of  a  farm-house,  walking  like  a 
young  queen,  about  half  a  mile  back.  I  made  Ike 
drive  slowly  and  tried  to  get  her  to  look  at  me,  but 
she  only  raised  her  eyes  once." 

"Virginia  Hemingway,"  Chester  said,  coldly. 
"Yes,  she's  pretty.  There's  no  doubt  about  that." 

"You  know  her,  then?"  said  the  drummer,  eager- 
ly. "Say,  old  man,  introduce  a  fellow." 

Chester's  face  hardened.  The  light  of  cordial- 
ity died  out  of  his  eyes.  There  was  a  significant 
twitching  of  his  lips  round  his  cigar.  "  I  really 
don't  see  how  I  could,"  he  said,  after  an  awkward 
pause,  during  which  his  eyes  were  averted.  "  You 
see,  Masters,  she's  quite  young,  and  it  happens  that 
her  mother  —  a  lonely  old  widow  —  is  rather  sus- 
picious of  men  in  general,  and  I  seem  to  have  dis- 
pleased her  in  some  way.  You  see,  all  these  folks, 
as  a  rule,  go  regularly  to  meeting,  and  as  I  don't 
go  often,  why— 

"Oh,  I  see,"  the  drummer  said.  "But  let  me 
tell  you,  old  chap,  suspicious  mother  or  what  not, 
I'd  see  something  of  that  little  beauty  if  I  lived  here. 
Gee  whiz!  she'd  make  a  Fifth  Avenue  dress  and 
Easter  hat  ashamed  of  themselves  anywhere  but 
on  her.  Look  here,  Chester,  I've  always  had  a 
sneaking  idea  that  sooner  or  later  I'd  be  hit  deep 
at  first  sight  by  some  woman,  and  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  know  but  what  that's  the  matter  with  me  right 
now.  I've  seen  so  many  women,  first  and  last, 
here  and  there,  always  in  the  giddy  set,  that  I 
reckon  if  I  ever  marry  I'd  rather  risk  some  pure- 
minded  little  country  girl.  Do  you  know,  town 
girls  simply  know  too  much  to  be  interesting.  By 

64 


Ann    Boyd 

George,  I  simply  feel  like  I'd  be  perfectly  happy 
with  a  little  wife  like  the  girl  I  saw  this  morning. 
I  wish  you  could  fix  it  so  I  could  meet  her  this  trip, 
or  my  next." 

"I — I  simply  can't  do  it,  Masters."  There  was 
a  rising  flush  of  vexation  in  the  young  planter's  face 
as  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  into  a  nail- 
keg  on  the  floor.  "I  don't  know  her  well  enough, 
in  the  first  place,  and  then,  in  the  next,  as  I  said, 
her  mother  is  awfully  narrow  and  particular.  She 
scarcely  allows  the  girl  out  of  sight;  if  you  once 
saw  old  Jane  Hemingway  you'd  not  fancy  making 
love  before  her  eyes." 

"Well,  I  reckon  Wilson  knows  the  girl,  doesn't 
he?"  the  drummer  said. 

Chester  hesitated,  a  cold,  steady  gleam  of  the 
displeasure  he  was  trying  to  hide  flashed  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  knows  her  well  enough  for 
that,1'  he  replied.  "The  people  round  here  think 
I'm  tough  enough,  but  you  drummers — huh!  some 
of  them  look  on  you  as  the  very  advance  agents  of 
destruction." 

"That's  a  fact,"  Masters  sighed,  "the  profession 
is  getting  a  black  eye  in  the  rural  districts.  They 
think  we  are  as  bad  as  show  people.  By  George, 
there  she  is  now!" 

"Yes,  that's  her,"  and  the  young  planter  glanced 
towards  the  front  doorway  through  which  Vir- 
ginia Hemingway  was  entering.  So  fixed  was  the 
drummer's  admiring  gaze  upon  the  pretty  creature, 
that  he  failed  to  notice  that  his  companion  had 
quietly  slipped  towards  the  rear  of  the  store.  Chester 

65 


Ann    Boyd 

stood  for  a  moment  in  the  back  doorway,  and  then 
stepped  down  outside  and  made  his  way  into  the 
wood  near  by.  The  drummer  sauntered  behind 
the  counter  towards  the  front,  till  he  was  near  the 
show-case  at  which  the  girl  was  making  her  pur- 
chase, and  there  he  stood,  allowing  the  fire  of  his 
cigar  to  die  out  as  he  watched  her,  while  Wilson 
was  exhibiting  to  her  a  drawer  full  of  thread  for  her 
to  select  from. 

"  By  all  that's  good  and  holy,  she  simply  caps  the 
stack!"  Masters  said  to  himself;  "and  to  think  that 
these  galoots  out  here  in  the  woods  are  not  onto  it. 
She'd  set  Peachtree  Street  on  fire.  I'm  going  to 
meet  that  girl  if  I  have  to  put  on  old  clothes  and 
work  for  day  wages  in  her  mother's  cornfield. 
Great  goodness!  here  I  am,  a  hardened  ladies'  man, 
feeling  cold  from  head  to  foot  on  a  hot  day  like  this. 
I'm  hit,  by  George,  I'm  hit!  Freddy,  old  boy,  this 
is  the  thing  you  read  about  in  books.  I  wonder 
if—" 

But  she  was  gone.  She  had  tripped  out  into  the 
sunshine.  He  saw  the  yellow  light  fall  on  her 
abundant  hair  and  turn  it  into  a  blaze  of  gold.  As 
if  dreaming,  he  went  to  the  door  and  stood  looking 
after  her  as  she  moved  away  on  the  dusty  road. 

"  I  see  you  are  killing  time."  It  was  George  Wil- 
son at  his  elbow.  "I'll  be  through  here  and  with 
you  in  a  minute.  My  crowd  is  thinning  out  now. 
That's  the  way  it  comes — all  in  a  rush ;  like  a  mill- 
dam  broke  loose." 

"Oh,  I'm  in  no  hurry,  Wilson,"  said  Masters,  his 
gaze  bent  upon  the  bushes  behind  which  Virginia 
had  just  disappeared.  "Say,  now,  old  man,  don't 

66 


Ann    Boyd 

say  you  won't  do  it;  the  fact  is,  I  want  to  be  intro- 
duced to  that  girl — the  little  daisy  you  sold  the 
thread  to.  By  glory,  she  is  the  prettiest  little 
thing  I  ever  saw." 

"Virginia  Hemingway!"  said  the  store  -  keeper. 
"Yes,  she's  a  regular  beauty,  and  the  gentlest, 
sweetest  little  trick  in  seven  states.  Well,  Masters, 
I'll  be  straight  with  you.  It's  this  way.  You  see, 
she  really  is  full  grown,  and  old  enough  to  receive 
company,  I  reckon,  but  her  mother,  the  old  woman 
I  told  you  about  who  hates  Ann  Boyd  so  thoroughly 
— well,  she  doesn't  seem  to  realize  that  Virginia  is 
coming  on,  and  so  she  won't  consent  to  any  of  the 
boys  going  near  her.  But  old  Jane  can't  make  nat- 
ure over.  Girls  will  be  girls,  and  if  you  put  too 
tight  a  rein  on  them  they  will  learn  to  slip  the  hal- 
ter, or  some  chap  will  teach  them  to  take  the  bit 
in  their  teeth." 

A  man  came  to  Wilson  holding  a  sample  of  syrup 
on  a  piece  of  wrapping-paper,  to  which  he  had  ap- 
plied his  tongue.  "  What's  this  here  brand  worth  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Sixty -five  —  best  golden  drip,"  was  Wilson's 
reply.  "Fill  your  jug  vourself;  I'll  take  your  word 
for  it." 

"  All  right,  you  make  a  ticket  of  it — jug  holds  two 
gallons,"  said  the  customer,  and  he  turned  away. 

"  Say,  Wilson,  just  a  minute,"  cried  the  drummer; 
"do  you  mean  that  she — " 

"Oh,  look  here  now,"  said  the  store-keeper.  "I 
don't  mean  any  reflection  against  that  sweet  girl, 
but  it  has  become  a  sort  of  established  habit  among 
girls  here  in  the  mountains,  when  their  folks  hold 

67 


Ann   Boyd 

them  down  too  much,  for  them  to  meet  fellows  on 
the  sly,  out  walking  and  the  like.  Virginia,  as  I 
started  to  say,  is  full  of  natural  life.  She  knows 
she's  pretty,  and  she  wouldn't  be  a  woman  if  she 
didn't  want  to  be  told  so — though,  to  be  so  good- 
looking,  she  is  really  the  most  sensible  girl  I  know." 

"You  mean  she  has  her  fancies,  then,"  said  Mas- 
ters, in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"I  don't  say  she  has."  Wilson  had  an  uneasy 
glance  on  a  group  of  women  bending  over  some 
bolts  of  calico,  one  of  whom  was  chewing  a  sample 
clipped  from  a  piece  to  see  if  it  would  fade.  "  But — 
between  me  and  you  now  —  Langdon  Chester  has 
for  the  last  three  months  been  laying  for  her.  I  see 
he's  slipped  away;  I'd  bet  my  hat  he  saw  her  just 
now,  and  has  made  a  break  for  some  point  on  the 
road  where  he  can  speak  to  her." 

"  Chester  ?  Why,  the  rascal  pretended  to  me  just 
now  that  he  hardly  knew  her." 

Wilson  smiled  knowingly.  "  That's  his  way.  He 
is  as  sly  as  they  make  'em.  His  daddy  was  before 
him.  When  it  comes  to  dealing  with  women  who 
strike  their  fancy  they  know  exactly  what  they  are 
doing.  But  Langdon  has  struck  flint-rock  in  that 
little  girl.  He,  no  doubt,  is  flirting  with  all  his 
might,  but  she'll  have  him  on  his  knees  before  he's 
through  with  it.  A  pair  of  eyes  like  hers  would 
burn  up  every  mean  thought  in  a  man." 

The  drummer  sighed,  a  deep  frown  on  his  brow. 
"  You  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do,"  he  said.  "  I 
knew  him  at  college.  George,  that  little  trick 
ought  not  to  be  under  such  a  fellow's  influence. 
I'm  just  a  travelling  man,  but — well — " 

68 


Ann    Boyd 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it — even 
if  there  is  any  danger  ?"  said  Wilson.  "  Get  a  drink 
in  him,  and  Langdon,  like  his  father,  will  fight  at 
the  drop  of  a  hat.  Conscience?  He  hasn't  any. 
I  sometimes  wonder  why  the  Almighty  made  them 
like  they  are,  and  other  men  so  different,  for  it  is  only 
the  men  who  are  not  bothered  by  conscience  that 
have  any  fun  in  this  life.  One  of  the  Chesters  could 
drive  a  light-hearted  woman  to  suicide  and  sleep 
like  a  log  the  night  she  was  buried.  Haven't  I 
heard  the  old  man  laugh  about  Ann  Boyd,  and  all 
she's  been  through?  Huh!  But  I'm  not  afraid  of 
that  little  girl's  fate.  She  will  take  care  of  herself, 
and  don't  you  forget  it." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  her,"  said  Masters,  "and 
I'm  going  to  try  to  meet  her.  I'm  tough,  George — 
I'll  play  a  game  of  cards  and  bet  on  a  horse,  and  say 
light  things  to  a  pretty  girl  when  she  throws  down 
the  bars — but  I  draw  the  line  at  downright  rascality. 
Once  in  a  while  I  think  of  home  and  my  own  folks." 

"Now  you  are  a-talking."  And  Wilson  hurried 
away  to  a  woman  who  sat  in  a  chair  holding  a  bolt 
of  calico  in  her  arms,  as  if  it  were  her  first-born 
child  and  the  other  women  were  open  kidnappers. 

Masters  stood  motionless  in  the  doorway,  his  eyes 
on  the  dusty  road  that  stretched  on  towards  Jane 
Hemingway's  house. 

"Yes,  she's  in  bad,  bad  hands,"  he  said;  "and 
she  is  the  first — I  really  believe  she's  the  first  that 
ever  hit  me  this  hard."  ' 


VIII 

\T  dusk  that  day  Ann  Boyd  went  out 
to  search  for  a  missing  cow.  She 
crossed  the  greater  part  of  her  stretch 
of  meadow-land  in  the  foggy  shadows, 
and  finally  found  the  animal  mired  to 
the  knees  in  a  black  bog  hidden  from  view  by  the 
high  growth  of  bulrushes.  Then  came  the  task  of 
releasing  the  patient  creature,  and  Ann  carried  rails 
from  the  nearest  fence,  placing  them  in  such  a  way 
that  the  cow  finally  secured  a  substantial  footing 
and  gladly  sped  homeward  to  her  imprisoned  calf. 
Then,  to  escape  the  labor  of  again  passing  through 
the  clinging  vines  and  high  grass  of  the  marsh,  Ann 
took  the  nearest  way  to  the  main  road  leading  from 
the  store  on  to  Jane  Hemingway's  cottage.  She 
had  just  reached  the  little  meeting-house,  and  a  hot 
flush  of  anger  at  the  memory  of  the  insult  passed 
upon  her  there  was  surging  over  her,  when,  happen- 
ing to  glance  towards  the  graveyard  in  the  rear  of 
the  building,  she  saw  Virginia  Hemingway  and 
Langdon  Chester,  quite  with  the  air  of  lovers,  slow- 
ly walking  homeward  along  a  path  which,  if  more 
rugged,  led  more  directly  towards  the  girl's  home. 
Ann  Boyd  started  and  then  stared ;  she  could  hard- 
ly credit  the  evidence  of  her  sight — Virginia  Hem- 
ingway and  the  scapegrace  son  of  that  man,  of  all 
men,  together! 

7o 


Ann   Boyd 

"Ah,  ha!"  she  exclaimed,  under  her  breath,  and, 
falling  back  into  the  bushes  which  bordered  the 
roadside,  she  stood  tingling  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  new  and  unexpected  sensation,  her  eager  eyes  on 
the  loitering  pair.  "So  that's  it,  is  it?  The  young 
scamp  has  picked  her  out,  devil  that  he  is  by  blood 
and  birth.  Well,  I  might  have  known  it.  Who 
could  know  better  than  me  what  a  new  generation 
of  that  cursed  stock  would  be  up  to?  Right  now 
he's  the  living  image  of  what  his  father  was  at  the 
same  age.  He's  lying  to  her,  too,  with  tongue, 
eyes,  voice,  and  very  bend  of  body.  Great  God, 
isn't  she  pretty?  I  never,  in  my  best  day,  saw  the 
minute  that  I  could  have  held  a  candle  to  her,  and 
yet  they  all  said — but  that  makes  no  difference.  I 
wonder  why  I  never  thought  before  that  he'd  pick 
her  out.  As  much  as  I  hate  her  mammy,  and  her, 
too,  I  must  acknowledge  she's  sweet-looking.  She's 
pure-minded,  too — as  pure  of  thought  as  I  was  away 
back  there  when  I  wore  my  hair  in  a  plait.  But 
that  man  will  crush  your  purity,  you  little,  blind 
kitten,  crush  it  like  a  fresh  violet  under  a  horse's 
hoof;  he'll  teach  you  what  life  is.  That's  the  busi- 
ness the  Chesters  are  good  at.  But,  look!  I  do 
believe  she's  holding  off  from  him."  Ann  crept  on- 
ward through  the  bushes  to  keep  pace  with  the 
couple,  now  and  then  stretching  her  neck  or  rising 
to  her  full  height  on  tiptoe. 

"He  hasn't  been  on  her  track  very  long,"  she 
mused,  "but  he  has  won  the  biggest  part  of  his 
battle  —  he's  got  her  to  meet  him  privately.  A 
sight  of  this  would  lay  her  old  mammy  out  stiff 
as  a  board,  but  she'll  be  kept  in  the  dark.  That 

71 


Ann    Boyd 

scamp  will  see  to  that  part  of  the  affair.  But 
she'll  know  in  the  end.  Somebody  will  tell  her  the 
truth.  Maybe  the  girl  will  herself,  when  the  aw- 
ful, lonely  pinch  comes  and  there  is  no  other  friend 
in  sight.  Then,  Jane  Hemingway,  it  will  all  come 
home  to  you.  Then  you'll  look  back  on  the  long, 
blood-hound  hunt  you've  given  another  woman  in 
the  same  plight.  The  Almighty  is  doing  it.  He's 
working  it  out  for  Jane  Hemingway's  life-portion. 
The  girl  is  the  very  apple  of  her  eye ;  she  has  often 
said  she  was  the  image  of  herself,  and  that,  as  her 
own  marriage  and  life  had  come  to  nothing,  she  was 
going  to  see  to  it  that  her  only  child's  path  was 
strewn  with  roses.  Well,  Langdon  Chester  is  strew- 
ing the  roses  thick  enough.  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  the  peer- 
ing woman  chuckled.  "Jane  can  come  along  an' 
pick  'em  up  when  they  are  withered  and  crumble 
like  powder  at  the  slightest  touch.  Now  I  really 
will  have  something  to  occupy  me.  I'll  watch  this 
thing  take  root,  and  bud,  and  leave,  and  bloom,  and 
die.  Maybe  I'll  be  the  first  to  carry  the  news  to 
headquarters.  I'd  love  it  more  than  anything  this 
life  could  give  me.  I'd  like  to  shake  the  truth  in 
Jane  Hemingway's  old,  blinking  eyes  and  see  her 
unable  to  believe  it.  I'd  like  to  stand  shaking  it 
in  her  teeth  till  she  knew  it  was  so,  and  then  I  honest- 
ly believe  I'd  fall  right  down  in  front  of  her  and  roll 
over  and  over  laughing.  To  think  that  I,  maybe  / 
will  be  able  to  flaunt  the  very  thing  in  her  face 
that  she  has  all  these  years  held  over  me — the  very 
thing,  even  to  its  being  a  son  of  the  very  scoundrel 
that  actually  bent  over  the  cradle  of  my  girlhood 
and  blinded  me  with  the  lies  that  lit  up  his  face." 

72 


Ann    Boyd 

A  few  yards  away  the  pair  had  paused.  Chester 
had  taken  the  girl's  hand  and  was  gently  stroking 
it  as  it  lay  restlessly  in  his  big  palm.  For  a  moment 
Ann  lost  sight  of  them,  for  she  was  stealthily  creep- 
ing behind  the  low,  hanging  boughs  of  the  bushes 
to  get  nearer.  She  found  herself  presently  behind 
a  big  bowlder.  She  no  longer  saw  the  couple,  but 
could  hear  their  voices  quite  distinctly. 

"You  won't  even  let  me  hold  your  hand,"  she 
heard  him  say.  "  You  make  me  miserable,  Virginia. 
When  I  am  at  home  alone,  I  get  to  thinking  over 
your  coldness  and  indifference,  and  it  nearly  drives 
me  crazy.  Why  did  you  jerk  your  hand  away  so 
quickly  just  now?" 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  were  talking  to  a  drummer 
about  me  for,  in  a  public  place  like  that,"  the  girl 
answered,  in  pouting  tones. 

"Why,  it  was  this  way,  Virginia — now  don't  be 
silly!"  protested  Chester.  "You  see,  this  Masters 
and  I  were  at  college  together,  and  rather  intimate, 
and  down  at  the  store  we  were  standing  talking 
when  you  came  in  the  front  to  buy  something.  He 
said  he  thought  you  were  really  the  prettiest  girl 
he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  was  begging  me  to  intro- 
duce him  to  you." 

"Introduce  him!"  Virginia  snapped.  "I  don't 
want  to  know  him.  And  so  you  stood  there  talk- 
ing about  me!" 

"It  was  only  a  minute,  Virginia,  and  I  couldn't 
help  it,"  Chester  declared.  "I  didn't  think  you'd 
care  to  know  him,  but  I  had  to  treat  him  decently. 
I  told  him  how  particular  your  mother  was,  and 
that  I  couldn't  manage  it.  Oh,  he's  simply  daft 
6  73 


Ann   Boyd 

about  you.  He  passed  you  on  the  road  this  morn- 
ing, and  hasn't  been  able  to  talk  about  anything 
since.  But  who  could  blame  him,  Virginia?  You 
can  form  no  idea  of  how  pretty  you  are  in  the  eyes 
of  other  people.  Frankly,  in  a  big  gathering  of 
women  you'd  create  a  sensation.  You've  got  what 
every  society  woman  in  the  country  would  die  to 
have,  perfect  beauty  of  face  and  form,  and  the  most 
remarkable  part  about  it  is  your  absolute  uncon- 
sciousness of  it  all.  I've  seen  good-looking  women 
in  the  best  sets  in  Augusta  and  Savannah  and 
Atlanta,  but  they  all  seem  to  be  actually  making 
up  before  your  very  eyes.  Do  you  know,  it  actually 
makes  me  sick  to  see  a  woman  all  rigged  out  in  a 
satin  gown  so  stiff  that  it  looks  like  she's  encased 
in  some  metallic  painted  thing  that  moves  on  rollers. 
It's  beauty  unadorned  that  you've  got,  and  it's  the 
real  thing." 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  myself  eternally," 
said  Virginia,  rather  sharply,  the  eavesdropper 
thought,  "  and  I  don't  see  why  you  seem  to  think 
I  do.  When  you  are  sensible  and  talk  to  me  about 
what  we  have  both  read  and  thought,  I  like  you 
better." 

"  Oh,  you  want  me  to  be  a  sort  of  Luke  King,  who 
put  all  sorts  of  fancies  in  your  head  when  you  were 
too  young  to  know  what  they  meant.  You'd  better 
let  those  dreams  alone,  Virginia,  and  get  down  to 
every-day  facts.  My  love  for  you  is  a  reality.  It's 
a  big  force  in  my  life.  I  find  myself  thinking  about 
you  and  your  coldness  from  early  morning  till  late 
at  night.  Last  Monday  you  were  to  come  to  the 
Henry  Spring,  and  I  was  there  long  before  the  time, 

74 


Ann    Boyd 

and  stayed  in  agony  of  suspense  for  four  hours,  but 
I  had  my  walk  for  nothing." 

"I  couldn't  come,"  Ann  Boyd  heard  the  sweet 
voice  say.  "Mother  gave  me  some  work  to  do, 
and  I  had  no  excuse;  besides,  I  don't  like  to  deceive 
her.  She's  harsh  and  severe,  but  I  don't  like  to  do 
anything  she  would  disapprove  of." 

"You  don't  really  care  much  for  me,"  said Lang- 
don — "that  is  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell." 

Virginia  was  silent,  and  Ann  Boyd  bit  her  lip 
and  clinched  her  hands  tightly.  The  very  words 
and  tone  of  enforced  reproach  came  back  to  her 
across  the  rolling  surf  of  time.  She  was  for  a  mo- 
ment lost  in  retrospection.  The  young  girl  behind 
the  bushes  seemed  suddenly  to  be  herself,  her  com- 
panion the  dashing  young  Preston  Chester,  the 
prince  of  planters  and  slave-holders.  Langdon's  in- 
sistent voice  brought  back  the  present. 

"You  don't  care  for  me,  you  know  you  don't," 
he  was  saying.  "You  were  simply  born  with  all 
your  beauty  and  sweetness  to  drag  me  down  to 
despair.  You  make  me  desperate  with  your  mad- 
dening reserve  and  icy  coldness,  when  all  this  hot 
fire  is  raging  in  me." 

"That's  what  makes  me  afraid  of  you,"  Virginia 
said,  softly.  "I  admit  I  like  to  be  with  you,  my 
life  is  so  lonely,  but  you  always  say  such  extrava- 
gant things  and  want  to — to  catch  hold  of  me,  and 
kiss  me,  and — 

"  Well,  how  can  I  help  myself,  when  you  are  what 
you  are?"  Chester  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
don't  want  to  act  a  lie  to  you,  and  stand  and  court 
you  like  a  long-faced  Methodist  parson,  who  begins 

75 


Ann    Boyd 

and  ends  his  love-making  with  prayer.  Life  is  too 
beautiful  and  lovely  to  turn  it  into  a  funeral  ser- 
vice from  beginning  to  end.  Let's  be  happy,  little 
girl;  let's  laugh  and  be  merry  and  thank  our  stars 
we  are  alive." 

"  I  won't  thank  my  stars  if  I  don't  go  on  home." 
And  Virginia  laughed  sweetly  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  had  better  walk  on,"  Lang- 
don  admitted,  "but  I'm  not  going  out  into  the 
open  road  with  you  till  I've  had  that  kiss.  No, 
you  needn't  pull  away,  dear — I'm  going  to  have 
it." 

The  grim  eavesdropper  heard  Virginia  sharply 
protesting;  there  was  a  struggle,  a  tiny,  smothered 
scream,  and  then  something  waked  in  the  breast  of 
Ann  Boyd  that  lifted  her  above  her  sordid  self.  It 
was  the  enraged  impulse  to  dart  forward  and  with 
her  strong,  toil-hardened  hands  clutch  the  young 
man  by  the  throat  and  drag  him  down  to  the  ground 
and  hold  him  there  till  the  flames  she  knew  so  well 
had  gone  out  of  his  face.  Something  like  a  prayer 
sprang  to  her  lips — a  prayer  for  help,  and  then,  in  a 
flush  of  shame,  the  slow-gained  habit  of  years  came 
back  to  her ;  she  was  taking  another  view — this  time 
down  a  darkened  vista. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine,"  she  muttered.  "It's 
only  the  way  things  are  evened  up.  After  all, 
where  would  be  the  justice  in  one  woman  suffering 
from  a  thing  for  a  lifetime  and  another  going  scot 
free,  and  that  one,  too,  the  daughter  of  the  one  per- 
son that  has  deliberately  made  a  life  miserable? 
No,  siree!  My  pretty  child,  take  care  of  yourself. 
I'm  not  your  mother.  If  she  would  let  me  alone 

76 


Ann   Boyd 

for  one  minute,  maybe  her  eyes  would  be  open  to 
her  own  interests." 

Laughing  pleasantly  over  having  obtained  his 
kiss  by  sheer  force,  Langdon,  holding  Virginia's  re- 
luctant hand,  led  her  out  into  an  open  space,  and 
the  watcher  caught  a  plain  view  of  the  girl's  profile, 
and  the  sight  twisted  her  thoughts  into  quite  an- 
other channel.  For  a  moment  she  stood  as  if  rooted 
to  the  ground  behind  the  bushes  which  had  shielded 
her.  "That  girl  is  going  to  be  a  hard  one  to  fool," 
she  muttered.  "  I  can  see  that  from  her  high  fore- 
head and  firm  chin.  Now,  it  really  would  be  a  joke 
on  me  if  —  if  Jane  Hemingway's  offspring  was  to 
avoid  the  pitfall  I  fell  into,  with  all  the  head  I've 
got.  Then,  I  reckon,  Jane  could  talk;  that,  I  reckon, 
would  prove  her  right  in  so  bitterly  denouncing  me ; 
but  will  the  girl  stand  the  pressure  ?  If  she  intends 
to,  she's  made  a  bad  beginning.  Meeting  a  chap 
like  that  on  the  sly  isn't  the  best  way  to  be  rid  of 
him,  nor  that  kiss;  which  she  let  him  have  without 
a  scratch  or  loss  of  a  hair  on  his  side,  is  another  bad 
indication.  Well,  the  game's  on.  Me  'n'  Jane  is  on 
the  track  neck  to  neck  with  the  wire  and  band- 
stand ahead.  If  the  angels  are  watching  this  sport, 
them  in  the  highest  seats  may  shed  tears,  but  it  will 
be  fun  to  the  other  sort.  I'm  reckless.  I  don't 
much  care  which  side  I  amuse;  the  whole  thing 
come  up  of  its  own  accord,  and  the  Lord  of  Creation 
hasn't  done  as  much  for  my  spiritual  condition  as 
the  Prince  of  Darkness.  I  may  be  a  she-devil,  but 
I  was  made  one  by  circumstances  as  naturally  as  a 
foul  weed  is  made  to  grow  high  and  strong  by  the 
manure  around  its  root.  And  yet,  I  reckon,  there 

77 


Ann    Boyd 

must  be  some  dregs  of  good  left  in  my  cup,  for  I  felt 
like  strangling  that  scamp  a  minute  ago.  But  that 
may  have  been  because  I  forgot  and  thought  he  was 
his  daddy,  and  the  girl  was  me  on  the  brink  of  that 
chasm  twenty  years  wide  and  deeper  than  the  mys- 
tery of  the  grave  of  mankind.  I  don't  know  much, 
but  I  know  I'm  going  to  fight  Jane  Hemingway  as 
long  as  I  live.  I  know  I'm  going  to  do  that,  for 
I  know  she  will  keep  her  nose  to  my  trail,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  human  if  I  didn't  hit  back." 

The  lovers  had  moved  on ;  their  voices  were  grow- 
ing faint  in  the  shadowy  distance.  The  gray  dusk 
had  fallen  in  almost  palpable  folds  over  the  land- 
scape. The  nearest  mountain  was  lost  like  the  sight 
of  land  at  sea.  She  walked  on  to  her  cow  that  was 
standing  bellowing  to  her  calf  in  the  stable-lot. 
Laying  her  hand  on  the  animal's  back,  Ann  said: 
"I'm  not  going  to  milch  you  to-night,  Sooky;  I'm 
going  to  let  your  baby  have  all  he  wants  if  it  fills 
him  till  he  can't  walk.  I'm  going  to  be  better  to 
you — you  poor,  dumb  brute — than  I  am  to  Jane 
Hemingway." 

Lowering  the  time-worn  and  smooth  bars,  she  let 
the  cow  in  to  her  young,  and  then,  closing  the  open- 
ing, she  went  into  her  kitchen  and  sat  down  before 
the  fire  and  pushed  out  her  water-soaked  feet  to  the 
flames  to  dry  them. 

In  an  iron  pot  having  an  ash-covered  lid  was  a 
piece  of  corn-pone  stamped  with  the  imprint  of  her 
fingers,  and  on  some  smouldering  coals  was  a  skillet 
containing  some  curled  strips  of  fried  bacon.  These 
things  Ann  put  upon  a  tin  plate,  and,  holding  it  in 
her  lap,  she  began  to  eat  her  supper.  She  was  nor- 

78 


Ann    Boyd 

mal  and  healthy,  and  therefore  her  excitement  had 
not  subdued  her  appetite.  She  ate  as  with  hearty 
enjoyment,  her  mind  busy  with  what  she  had  heard 
and  seen. 

"Ah,  old  lady!"  she  chuckled,  "you  can  laugh 
fit  to  split  your  sides  when  a  loud-mouthed  preacher 
talks  in  public  about  burning  benches,  but  your 
laugh  is  likely  to  come  back  in  an  echo  as  hollow  as 
a  voice  from  the  grave.  If  this  thing  ends  as  I  want 
it  to  end,  I'll  be  with  you,  Jane,  as  you've  managed 
to  be  with  me  all  these  years." 

Till  far  in  the  night  Ann  sat  nursing  her  new 
treasure  and  viewing  it  in  all  its  possible  forms, 
till,  growing  drowsy,  from  a  long  day  of  fatigue, 
she  undressed  herself,  and,  putting  on  a  dingy 
gray  night-gown,  she  crept  into  her  big  feather- 
bed. 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  girl,"  was  her  last  reflection 
before  sleep  bore  her  off.  "  She  isn't  a  bit  stronger 
than  I  was  at  about  the  same  age,  and  I'll  bet  the 
Chester  power  isn't  a  whit  weaker  than  it  was. 
Well,  time  will  tell." 

Late  in  the  night  she  was  waked  by  a  strange 
dream,  and,  to  throw  it  out  of  mind,  she  rose  and 
walked  out  into  the  entry  and  took  a  drink  of  water 
from  the  gourd.  She  had  dreamed  that  Virginia 
had  come  to  her  bedraggled  and  torn,  and  had  cried 
on  her  shoulder,  and  begged  her  for  help  and  pro- 
tection. In  the  dream  she  had  pressed  the  girl's 
tear-wet  face  against  her  own  and  kissed  her,  and 
said :  "  I  know  what  you  feel,  my  child,  for  I've  been 
through  it  from  end  to  end ;  but  if  the  whole  world 
turns  against  you,  come  here  to  me  and  we'll  live 

79 


Ann    Boyd 

together — the  young  and  old  of  the  queerest  fate 
known  to  womankind." 

"Ugh!"  Ann  ejaculated,  with  a  shudder.  "I 
wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me."  She  went 
back  to  bed,  lay  down  and  drew  her  feet  up  under 
the  sheets  and  shuddered.  "To  think  I'd  have  a 
dream  of  that  sort,  and  about  that  woman's  child!" 


IX 


(T  was  the  first  Sunday  in  June.  Mrs. 
Waycroft  came  along  the  stony  hill- 
side road  that  slanted  gently  down 
from  her  house  to  Ann  Boyd's.  It 
was  a  dry,  breezeless  morning  under 
an  unclouded  sun,  and  but  for  the  earliness  of  the 
hour  it  would  have  been  hot. 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  she  said  to  Ann,  whom 
she  found  in  the  back-yard  lowering  a  pail  of  butter 
into  the  well  to  keep  it  cool — "  I  was  just  wondering 
if  you'd  heard  that  a  new  man  is  to  preach  to-day. 
He's  a  Mr.  Calhoun,  from  Marietta,  a  pretty  good 
talker,  I've  heard." 

"No,  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Ann,  as  she  let  the 
hemp  rope  slowly  glide  through  her  fingers,  till, 
with  a  soft  sound,  the  pail  struck  the  dark  surface 
of  the  water  forty  feet  below.  "  How  am  I  to  hear 
such  things?  Through  the  whole  week,  unless  you 
happen  along,  I  only  have  a  pack  of  negroes  about 
me,  and  they  have  their  own  meetings  and  shin- 
digs to  go  to." 

Mrs.  Waycroft  put  her  hand  on  the  smooth, 
wooden  windlass  and  peered  down  into  the  well. 
"This  is  a  better  place,  Ann,  to  keep  milk  and  but- 
ter cool  than  a  spring-house,  if  you  can  just  make 
folks  careful  about  letting  the  bucket  down.  I  got 

81 


Ann    Boyd 

my  well  filled  with  milk  from  a  busted  jug  once, 
when  one  of  the  hands,  in  a  big  hurry,  pushed  the 
bucket  in  and  let  it  fall  to  the  water." 

"Nobody  draws  water  here  but  me,"  said  Ann. 
She  had  fixed  her  friend  with  a  steady,  penetrating 
stare.  She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  said, 
abruptly:  "You've  got  something  else  to  say  be- 
sides that  about  the  new  preacher;  I  have  got  so 
I  read  you  like  a  book.  I  watched  you  coming  along 
the  road.  I  could  see  you  over  the  roof  of  the  house 
when  you  was  high  up  in  the  edge  of  the  timber, 
and  I  knew  by  your  step  you  had  something  un- 
usual on  your  mind.  Besides,  you  know  good  and 
well  that  I'd  never  darken  the  door  of  that  house 
again,  not  if  forty  new  preachers  held  forth  there. 
No,  you  didn't  come  all  the  way  here  so  early  for 
that." 

The  other  woman  smiled  sheepishly  under  her 
gingham  bonnet. 

"I'm  not  going  to  meeting  myself,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  reckon  I  was  just  talking  to  hear  myself  run 
on.  I'm  that  away,  you  know." 

"  You  might  learn  not  to  beat  the  Old  Nick  around 
a  stump  with  a  woman  like  me,"  said  Ann,  firmly. 
"You  know  I  go  straight  at  a  thing.  I've  found 
that  it  pays  in  business  and  everything  else." 

"Well,  then,  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I'm  going 
over  to  Gilmer  to-morrow  to  see  my  brother  and  his 
wife." 

"Ah,  you  say  you  are!"  Ann  showed  surprise 
against  her  will.  "Gilmer?" 

"Yes,  you  see,  Ann,  they've  been  after  me  for  a 
long  time,  writing  letters  and  sending  word,  so  now 

82 


that  my  crop  is  laid  by  I've  not  really  got  a  good 
excuse  to  delay ;  seems  like  everything  tends  to  pull 
me  that  way  whether  or  no,  for  Pete  McQuill  is  going 
over  in  the  morning  with  an  empty  wagon,  and,  as 
he's  coming  back  Thursday,  why,  it  will  just  suit. 
I  wouldn't  want  to  stay  longer  than  that." 

The  two  women  stood  staring  at  each  other  in  si- 
lence for  a  moment,  then  Ann  shrugged  her  power- 
ful shoulders  and  averted  her  eyes. 

"That  wasn't  all  you  come  to  say,"  she  said,  al- 
most tremulously. 

"No,  it  wasn't,  Ann;  I  admit  it  wasn't  all — not 
quite  all." 

There  was  another  silence.  Ann  fastened  the  end 
of  the  rope  to  a  strong  nail  driven  in  the  wood-work 
about  the  well  with  firm,  steady  fingers,  then  she 
sighed  deeply. 

"You  see,  Ann,"  Mrs.  Waycroft  gathered  cour- 
age to  say,  "your  husband  and  Nettie  live  about 
half  a  mile  or  three-quarters  from  brother's,  and  I 
didn't  know  but  what  you — I  didn't  know  but 
what  I  might  accidentally  run  across  them." 

Ann's  face  was  hard  as  stone.  Her  eyes,  resting 
on  the  far-off  blue  mountains  and  foot-hills,  flashed 
like  spiritual  fires.  It  was  at  such  moments  that  the 
weaker  woman  feared  her,  and  Mrs.  Waycroft 's  glance 
was  almost  apologetic.  However,  Ann  spoke  first. 

"You  may  as  well  tell  me,  Mary  Waycroft,"  she 
faltered,  "exactly  what  you  had  in  mind.  I  know 
you  are  a  friend.  You  are  a  friend  if  there  ever  was 
one  to  a  friendless  woman.  What  was  you  think- 
ing about  ?  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  You  could 
not  hurt  my  feelings  to  save  your  life." 

83 


Ann   Boyd 

"Well,  then,  I  will  be  plain,  Ann,"  returned  the 
widow.  "  I  have  queer  thoughts  about  you  some- 
times, and  last  night  I  laid  awake  longer  than  usual 
and  got  to  thinking  about  the  vast  and  good  bless- 
ings I  have  had  in  my  children,  and  from  that  I  got 
to  thinking  about  you  and  the  only  baby  you  ever 
had." 

"Huh!  you  needn't  bother  about  that,"  said  Ann, 
her  lips  quivering.  "I  reckon  I  don't  need  sym- 
pathy in  that  direction." 

"But  I  did  bother;  I  couldn't  help  it,  Ann;  for, 
you  see,  it  seems  to  me  that  a  misunderstanding 
is  up  between  you  and  Nettie,  anyway.  She's  a 
grown  girl  now,  and  I  reckon  she  can  hardly  remem- 
ber you;  but  I  have  heard,  Ann,  that  she's  never 
had  the  things  a  girl  of  her  age  naturally  craves. 
She's  got  her  beaus  over  there,  too,  so  folks  tell  me, 
and  wants  to  appear  well;  but  Joe  Boyd  never  was 
able  to  give  her  anything  she  needs.  You  see,  Ann, 
I  just  sorter  put  myself  in  your  place,  as  I  laid  there 
thinking,  and  it  struck  me  that  if  I  had  as  much 
substance  as  you  have,  and  was  as  free  to  give  to 
the  needy  as  you  are,  that,  even  if  the  law  had 
turned  my  child  over  to  another  to  provide  for,  that 
I'd  love  powerful  to  do  more  for  it  than  he  was  able, 
showing  to  the  girl,  and  everybody  else,  that  the 
court  didn't  know  what  it  was  about.  And,  Ann, 
in  that  way  I'd  feel  that  I  was  doing  my  duty  in 
spite  of  laws  or  narrow  public  opinion." 

Ann  Boyd's  features  were  working,  a  soft  flush 
had  come  into  her  tanned  cheeks,  her  hard  mouth 
had  become  more  flexible. 

"I've  thought  of  that  ten  thousand  times,"  she 

84 


Ann    Boyd 

said,  huskily,  "but  I  have  never  seen  the  time  I 
could  quite  come  down  to  it.  Mary,  it's  a  sort  of 
pride  that  I  never  can  overcome.  I  feel  peculiar 
about  Net — about  the  girl,  anyway.  It  seems  to 
me  like  she  died  away  back  there  in  her  baby- 
clothes,  with  her  playthings — her  big  rag-doll  and 
tin  kitchen — and  that  I  almost  hate  the  strange, 
grown-up  person  she's  become  away  off  from  me. 
As  God  is  my  Judge,  Mary  Waycroft,  I  believe  I 
could  meet  her  face  to  face  and  not  feel — feel  like 
she  was  any  near  kin  of  mine.  I  can't  see  no  reason 
in  this  way  of  feeling.  I  know  she  had  nothing  to 
do  with  what  took  place,  but  she  represents  Joe 
Boyd's  part  of  the  thing,  and  she's  lost  her  place  in 
my  heart.  If  she  could  have  grown  up  here  with 
me  it  would  have  been  different,  but — "  Ann  went 
no  further.  She  stood  looking  over  the  landscape, 
her  hand  clutching  her  strong  chin.  There  was  an 
awkward  silence.  Some  of  Ann's  chickens  came  up 
to  her  very  skirt,  chirping  and  springing  open- 
mouthed  to  her  kindly  hand  for  food.  She  gently 
and  absent-mindedly  waved  her  apron  up  and  down 
and  drove  them  away. 

"I  understand  all  that,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft; 
"  but  I  believe  you  feel  that  way  just  because  you've 
got  in  the  habit  of  it.  I  really  believe  you  ought 
to  let  me"  —the  speaker  caught  her  breath  — 
"ought  to  just  let  me  tell  Nettie,  when  I  see  her, 
about  what  I  know  you  to  be  at  heart,  away  down 
under  what  the  outside  world  thinks.  And  you 
ought  to  let  me  say  that  if  her  young  heart  yearns 
for  anything  her  pa  can't  afford  to  buy,  that  I  know 
you'd  be  glad,  out  of  your  bounty,  to  give  it  to  her. 

85 


Ann   Boyd 

I  really  believe  it  would  open  the  girl's  eyes  and 
heart  to  you.  I  believe  she'd  not  only  accept  your 
aid,  but  she'd  be  plumb  happy  over  it,  as  any  other 
girl  in  the  same  fix  would  be." 

"Do  you  think  that,  Mary?  Do  you  think  she'd 
take  anything — a  single  thing  from  my  hands?" 

" I  do,  Ann,  as  the  Lord  is  my  Creator,  I  do;  any 
natural  girl  would  be  only  too  glad.  Young  women 
hungering  for  nice  things  to  put  on  along  with 
other  girls  ain't  as  particular  as  some  hide-bound 
old  people.  Then  I'll  bet  she  didn't  know  what  it 
was  all  about,  anyway." 

There  was  a  flush  in  Ann's  strong  neck  and  face 
to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair.  She  leaned  against 
the  windlass  and  folded  her  bare  arms.  "  Between 
me  and  you,  as  intimate  friends,  Mary  Waycroft, 
I'd  rather  actually  load  that  girl  down  with  things 
to  have  and  wear  than  to  have  anything  on  the 
face  of  this  earth.  I'd  get  on  the  train  myself  and 
go  clean  to  Atlanta  and  lay  myself  out.  What  she 
had  to  wear  would  be  the  talk  of  the  country  for 
miles  around.  I'd  do  it  to  give  the  lie  to  the  court 
that  said  she'd  be  in  better  hands  than  in  mine 
when  she  went  away  with  Joe  Boyd.  Oh,  I'd  do 
it  fast  enough,  but  there's  no  way.  She  wouldn't 
propose  it,  nor  I  wouldn't  for  my  life.  I  wouldn't 
run  the  risk  of  being  refused;  that  would  actually 
humble  me  to  the  dust.  No,  I  couldn't  risk 
that." 

"  I  believe,  Ann,  that  I  could  do  it  for  you  in  such 
a  way  that — " 

"No,  nobody  could  do  it;  it  isn't  to  be  done!" 

"I  started  to  say,  Ann,  that  I  believed  I  could 

86 


Ann   Boyd 

kind  o'  hint  around  and  find  out  how  the  land  lies 
without  using  your  name  at  all." 

Ann  Boyd  held  her  breath ;  her  face  became  fixed 
in  suspense.  She  leaned  forward,  her  great  eyes 
staring  eagerly  at  her  neighbor. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  do  that?"  she  asked, 
finally,  after  a  lengthy  pause.  "  Do  you  think  you 
could  do  it  without  letting  either  of  them  know  I 
was — was  willing?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  could,  and  you  may  let  it  rest 
right  here.  You  needn't  either  consent  or  refuse, 
Ann,  but  I'll  be  back  here  about  twelve  o'clock 
Thursday,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  takes  place." 

"I'll  leave  the  whole  thing  in  your  hands,"  said 
Ann,  and  she  moved  towards  the  rear  door  of  her 
house.  "  Now  " — and  her  tone  was  more  joyful  than 
it  had  been  for  years — "come  in  and  sit  down." 

"No,  I  can't;  I  must  hurry  on  back  home,"  said 
the  visitor.  "  I  must  get  ready  to  go ;  Pete  wants  to 
make  an  early  start." 

"You  know  you'll  have  plenty  of  time  all  this 
evening  to  stuff  things  in  that  carpet-bag  of  yours." 
Ann  laughed,  and  her  friend  remarked  that  it  was 
the  first  smile  and  joke  she  had  heard  from  Ann 
Boyd  since  their  girlhood  together. 

"Well,  I  will  go  in,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft. 
"  I  love  to  see  you  the  way  you  are  now,  Ann.  It 
does  my  heart  good." 

But  the  mood  was  gone.  Ann  was  serious  again. 
They  sat  in  the  sitting-room  chatting  till  the  people 
who  had  been  to  meeting  began  to  return  homeward 
along  the  dusty  road.  Among  them,  in  Sam  Hem- 
ingway's spring  wagon,  with  its  wabbling  wheels 

87 


Ann    Boyd 

and  ragged  oil-cloth  top,  were  Jane  and  her  daughter 
Virginia,  neither  of  whom  looked  towards  the  cot- 
tage as  they  passed. 

"  I  see  Virginia's  got  a  new  hat,"  commented  Mrs. 
Waycroft.  "  Her  mother  raked  and  scraped  to  get 
it;  her  credit's  none  too  good.  I  hear  she's  in  debt 
up  to  her  eyes.  Every  stick  of  timber  and  animal 
down  to  her  litter  of  pigs — even  the  farm  tools — is 
under  mortgage  to  money-lenders  that  won't  stand 
no  foolishness  when  pay-day  comes.  I  saw  two  of 
'em,  myself,  looking  over  her  crop  the  other  day 
and  shaking  their  heads  at  the  sight  of  the  puny 
corn  and  cotton  this  dry  spell.  But  she'd  have  the 
hat  for  Virginia  if  it  took  the  roof  from  over  her 
head.  Her  very  soul's  bound  up  in  that  girl. 
Looks  like  she  thinks  Virginia's  better  clay  than 
common  folks.  They  say  she  won't  let  her  go  with 
the  Halcomb  girls  because  their  aunt  had  that  talk 
about  her." 

"She's  no  better  nor  no  worse,  I  reckon,"  said 
Ann,  "than  the  general  run  of  girls." 

"There  goes  Langdon  Chester  on  his  prancing 
horse,"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft.  "Oh,  my!  that  was 
a  bow!  He  took  off  his  hat  to  Virginia  and  bent 
clean  down  to  his  horse's  mane.  If  she'd  been  a 
queen  he  couldn't  have  been  more  gallant.  For  all 
the  world,  like  his  father  used  to  be  to  high  and  low. 
I'll  bet  that  tickled  Jane.  I  can  see  her  rear  her- 
self back,  even  from  here.  I  wonder  if  she's  fool 
enough  to  think,  rascal  as  he  is,  that  Langdon 
Chester  would  want  to  marry  a  girl  like  Virginia 
just  for  her  good  looks." 

"No,  he'll  never  marry  her,"  Ann  said,  positively, 
88 


Ann   Boyd 

and  her  face  was  hard,  her  eyes  set  in  a  queer  stare 
at  her  neighbor.  "He  isn't  the  marrying  sort.  If 
he  ever  marries,  he'll  do  it  to  feather  his  nest." 

The  visitor  rose  to  go,  and  Ann  walked  with  her 
out  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  Waycroft  was  wondering  if 
she  would,  of  her  own  accord,  bring  up  the  subject 
of  their  recent  talk,  but  she  did  not.  With  her 
hand  on  the  gate,  she  said,  however,  in  a  non-com- 
mittal tone: 

"When  did  you  say  you'd  be  back?" 

"Thursday,  at  twelve  o'clock,  or  thereabouts," 
was  the  ready  reply. 

"Well,  take  good  care  of  yourself,"  said  Ann. 
"That  will  be  a  long,  hot  ride  over  a  rough  road 
there  and  back." 

Going  into  her  kitchen,  Ann,  with  her  roughly 
shod  foot,  kicked  some  live  embers  on  the  hearth 
under  the  pot  and  kettle  containing  her  dinner, 
bending  to  examine  the  boiling  string-beans  and 
hunch  of  salt  pork. 

"I  don't  feel  a  bit  like  eating,"  she  mused, 
"but  I  reckon  my  appetite  will  come  after  I  calm 
down,  x  Let's  see  now.  I've  got  two  whole  days  to 
wait  before  she  gets  back,  and  then  the  Lord  above 
only  knows  what  the  news  will  be.  Seems  to  me 
sorter  like  I'm  on  trial  again.  Nettie  was  too 
young  to  appear  for  or  against  me  before,  but  now 
she's  on  the  stand.  Yes,  she's  the  judge,  jury,  and 
all  the  rest  put  together.  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't 
let  Mary  Waycroft  see  I  was  willing.  It  may  make 
me  look  like  a  weak,  begging  fool,  and  that's  some- 
thing I've  avoided  all  these  years.  But  the  game 
is  worth  the  risk,  humiliating  as  it  may  turn  out. 

7  89 


Ann   Boyd 

To  be  able  to  do  something  for  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  would  give  me  the  first  joy  I've  had  in  many 
a  year.  Lord,  Lord,  maybe  she  will  consent,  and 
then  I'll  get  some  good  out  of  all  the  means  I've 
been  piling  up.  Homely  as  they  say  she  is,  I'd 
like  to  fairly  load  her  down  till  her  finery  would  be 
the  talk  of  the  county,  and  shiftless  Joe  Boyd  'ud 
blush  to  see  her  rustle  out  in  public.  Maybe — I  say 
maybe — nobody  really  knows  what  a  woman  will  do 
—but  maybe  she'll  just  up  and  declare  to  him  that 
she's  coming  back  to  me,  where  other  things  will 
match  her  outfit.  Come  back!  how  odd!  —  come 
back  here  where  she  used  to  toddle  about  and  play 
with  her  tricks  and  toys,  on  the  floor  and  in  the  yard. 
That  would  be  a  glorious  vindication,  and  then — I 
don't  know,  but  maybe  I'd  learn  to  love  her.  I'm 
sure  I'd  feel  grateful  for  it — even — even  if  it  was 
my  money  and  nothing  else  that  brought  her  to 
me. 


X 


JO  Ann  Boyd  the  period  between  Mrs. 
Waycroft's  departure  and  return  was 
long  and  fraught  with  conflicting 
emotions.  Strange,  half-defined  new 
hopes  fluttered  into  existence  like 
young  birds  in  air  that  was  too  chill,  and  this  state 
of  mind  was  succeeded  by  qualms  of  doubt  and 
fear  not  unlike  the  misgivings  which  had  preceded 
the  child's  birth;  for  it  had  been  during  that  time 
of  detachment  from  her  little  world  that  Ann's  life 
secret  had  assumed  its  gravest  and  most  threaten- 
ing aspect.  And  if  she  had  not  loved  the  child 
quite  as  much  after  it  came  as  might  have  seemed 
natural,  she  sometimes  ascribed  the  shortcoming 
to  that  morbid  period  which  had  been  filled  with 
lurking  shadows  and  constantly  whispered  threats 
rather  than  the  assurances  of  a  blessed  maternity. 
Yes,  the  lone  woman  reflected,  her  kind  neighbor 
had  taken  a  reasonable  view  of  the  situation.  And 
she  tried  valiantly  to  hold  this  pacifying  thought 
over  herself  as  she  sat  at  her  rattling  and  pounding 
loom,  or  in  her  walks  of  daily  inspection  over  her 
fields  and  to  her  storage-houses,  where  her  negro 
hands  were  at  work.  Yes,  Nettie  would  naturally 
crave  the  benefits  she  could  confer,  and,  to  still 
darker  promptings,  Ann  told  herself,  time  after 

91 


Ann    Boyd 

time,  that,  being  plain-looking,  the  girl  would  all  the 
more  readily  reach  out  for  embellishments  which 
would  ameliorate  that  defect.  Yes,  it  was  not  un- 
likely that  she  would  want  the  things  offered  too 
much  to  heed  the  malicious  and  jealous  advice  of  a 
shiftless  father  who  thought  only  of  his  own  pride 
and  comfort.  And  while  Ann  was  on  this  rack  of 
disquietude  over  the  outcome  of  Mrs.  Waycroft's 
visit,  there  was  in  her  heart  a  new  and  almost  un- 
usual absence  of  active  hatred  for  the  neighbors 
who  had  offended  her.  Old  Abe  Longley  came  by 
the  second  day  after  Mrs.  Waycroft's  departure. 
He  was  filled  with  the  augmented  venom  of  their 
last  contact.  His  eyes  flashed  and  the  yellow 
tobacco-juice  escaped  from  his  mouth  and  trickled 
down  his  quivering  chin  as  he  informed  her  that 
he  had  secured  from  a  good,  law-abiding  Christian 
woman  the  use  of  all  the  pasture-land  he  needed, 
and  that  she  could  keep  hers  for  the  devils'  imps 
to  play  pranks  on  at  night  to  her  order.  For  just 
one  instant  her  blood  boiled,  and  then  the  thought 
of  Mrs.  Waycroft  and  her  grave  and  spiritual  mis- 
sion cooled  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  stared  at 
the  old  man  blankly  for  an  instant,  and  then,  with- 
out a  word,  turned  into  her  house,  leaving  him  as- 
tounded and  considerably  taken  aback.  That  same 
day  from  her  doorway  she  saw  old  Mrs.  Bruce, 
Luke  King's  mother,  slowly  shambling  along  the 
road,  and  she  went  out  and  leaned  on  her  gate  till 
Mrs.  Bruce  was  near,  then  she  said,  "Mrs.  Bruce, 
I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

The  pedestrian  paused  and  then  turned  in  her 
course  and  came  closer. 

92 


Ann   Boyd 

"You've  heard  from  my  boy?"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"No,  not  since  I  saw  you  that  day,"  said  Ann. 
"  But  he's  all  right,  Mrs.  Bruce,  as  I  told  you,  and 
prospering.  I  didn't  come  out  to  speak  of  him. 
I've  decided  to  drop  that  law-suit  against  Gus  Wil- 
lard.  He  can  keep  his  pond  where  it  is  and  run  his 
mill  on." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  it,  surely  you  don't  mean 
it,  Ann!"  the  old  woman  cried.  "Why,  Gus  was 
just  back  from  Darley  last  night  and  said  your 
lawyers  said  thar  was  to  be  no  hitch  in  the  proceed- 
ings; but,  of  course,  if  you  say  so,  why— 

"Well,  I  do  say  so,"  said  Ann,  in  a  tone  which 
sounded  strange  and  compromising  even  to  herself. 
"  I  do  say  so ;  I  don't  want  your  husband  to  lose  his 
job.  Luke  wouldn't  like  for  you  to  suffer,  either, 
Mrs.  Bruce." 

"Then  I'll  go  at  once  and  tell  Willard,"  said  the 
older  woman.  "He'll  be  powerful  glad,  Ann,  and 
maybe  he  will  think  as  I  do,  an'  as  I/uke  always 
contended  against  everybody,  that  you  had  a  lots  o' 
good  away  down  inside  of  you." 

"Tell  him  what  you  want  to,"  Ann  answered, 
and  she  returned  to  her  house. 

On  the  morning  she  was  expecting  Mrs.  Way- 
croft  to  return,  Ann  rose  even  before  daybreak, 
lighting  an  abundant  supply  of  pine  kindling-wood 
to  drive  away  the  moist  darkness,  and  bustling  about 
the  house  to  kill  time.  It  was  the  greatest  crisis  of 
her  rugged  life;  not  even  the  day  she  was  wedded 
to  Joe  Boyd  could  equal  it  in  impending  gravity. 
She  was  on  trial  for  her  life;  the  jury  had  been  in 
retirement  two  days  and  nights  carefully  weighing 

93 


Ann   Boyd 

the  evidence  for  and  against  the  probability  of  a 
simple,  untutored  country  girl's  acceptance  of  cer- 
tain luxuries  dear  to  a  woman's  heart,  and  would 
shortly  render  a  verdict. 

"She  will,"  Ann  said  once,  as  she  put  her  ground 
coffee  into  the  tin  pot  to  boil  on  the  coals — "  she  will 
if  she's  like  the  ordinary  girl;  she  won't  if  she's  as 
stubborn  as  Joe  or  as  proud  as  I  am.  But  if  she 
does — oh!  if  she  does,  won't  I  love  to  pick  out  the 
things!  She  shall  have  the  best  in  the  land,  and 
she  can  wear  them  and  keep  them  in  the  log-cabin 
her  father's  giving  her  till  she  will  be  willing  to  come 
here  to  this  comfortable  house  and  take  the  best 
room  for  herself.  I  don't  know  that  I'd  ever  feel 
natural  with  a  strange  young  woman  about,  but  I'd 
go  through  it.  If  she  didn't  want  to  stay  all  the 
time,  I'd  sell  factory  stock  or  town  lots  and  give 
her  the  means  to  travel  on.  She  could  go  out  and 
see  the  world  and  improve  like  Luke  King's  done. 
I'd  send  her  to  school  if  she  has  the  turn  and  isn't 
past  the  age.  It  would  be  a  great  vindication  for 
me.  Folks  could  say  her  shiftless  father  took  her 
off  when  she  was  too  young  to  decide  for  herself,  but 
when  she  got  old  enough  to  know  black  from  white, 
and  right  from  wrong,  she  obeyed  her  heart's  prompt- 
ings. But  what  am  I  thinking  about,  when  right 
at  this  minute  she  may  —  ?"  Ann  shrugged  her 
shoulders  as  she  turned  from  the  cheerful  fire  and 
looked  out  on  her  fields  enfolded  in  the  misty  robe 
of  early  morning.  Above  the  dun  mountain  in  the 
east  the  sky  was  growing  yellow.  Ann  suddenly 
grew  despondent  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Even  if  she  did  come  here  in  the  end,  and  I  tried 

94 


Ann    Boyd 

to  do  all  I  could,"  she  mused,  "Jane  Hemingway 
would  begin  on  her  and  make  it  unpleasant.  She'd 
manage  to  keep  all  civilization  away  from  the  girl, 
and  nobody  couldn't  stand  that.  No,  I  reckon  the 
jig's  up  with  me.  I'm  only  floundering  in  a  frying- 
pan  that  will  cook  me  to  a  cinder  in  the  end.  This 
life's  given  me  the  power  of  making  money,  but  it's 
yellow  dross,  and  I  hate  it.  It  isn't  the  means  to 
any  end  for  me  unless — unless — unless  my  dau — 
unless  she  does  take  Mrs.  Waycroft's  offer.  Yes, 
she  may — the  girl  actually  may!  And  in  that  case 
she  and  I  could  run  away  from  Jane  Hemingway 
— clean  off  to  some  new  place." 

Ann  turned  back  to  the  fireplace  and  filled  her 
big  delft  cup  to  the  brim  with  strong  coffee,  and, 
blowing  upon  it  to  cool  it,  she  gulped  it  down. 

"  Let's  see  " — her  musings  ran  on  apace — "  milching 
the  three  cows  and  feeding  the  cattle  and  horses 
and  pigs  and  chickens  will  take  an  hour.  I  could 
stretch  it  out  to  that  by  mixing  the  feed-stuff  for 
to-morrow.  Then  I  could  go  to  the  loom  and  weave 
up  all  my  yarn ;  that  would  be  another  hour.  Then 
I  might  walk  down  to  the  sugar-mill  and  see  if  they 
are  getting  it  fixed  for  use  when  the  sorgum's  ripe, 
but  all  that  wouldn't  throw  it  later  than  ten  o'clock 
at  latest,  and  there  would  still  be  two  hours.  Pete 
McQuill  is  easy  on  horses;  he'll  drive  slow — a  regu- 
lar snail's  pace;  it  will  be  twelve  when  he  gets  to 
the  store,  and  then  the  fool  may  stop  to  buy  some- 
thing before  he  brings  her  on." 

The  old-fashioned  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  in- 
dicated that  it  was  half -past  eleven  when  Ann  had 
done  everything  about  the  house  and  farm  she  could 

95 


Ann    Boyd 

think  of  laying  her  hands  to,  and  she  was  about  to 
sit  down  in  the  shade  of  an  apple-tree  in  the  yard 
when  she  suddenly  drew  herself  up  under  the  in- 
spiration of  an  idea.  Why  not  start  down  the  road 
to  meet  the  wagon  ?  No,  that  would  not  do.  Even 
to  such  a  close  friend  as  Mrs.  Waycroft  she  could 
not  make  such  an  obvious  confession  of  the  im- 
patience which  was  devouring  her.  But,  and  she 
put  the  after- thought  into  action,  she  would  go  to 
the  farthest  corner  of  her  own  land,  where  her 
premises  touched  the  main  road,  and  that  was  fully 
half  a  mile.  She  walked  to  that  point  across  her 
own  fields  rather  than  run  the  chance  of  meeting 
any  one  on  the  road,  though  the  way  over  ploughed 
ground,  bog,  fen,  and  through  riotous  growth  of 
thistle  and  clinging  briers  was  anything  but  an 
easy  one.  Reaching  the  point  to  which  she  had 
directed  her  steps,  and  taking  a  hasty  survey  of 
the  road  leading  gradually  up  the  mountain,  she 
leaned  despondently  on  her  rai-lfence. 

"She  won't,  she  won't  —  the  girl  won't!"  she 
sighed.  "  I  feel  down  in  my  heart  of  hearts  that 
she  won't.  Joe  Boyd  won't  let  her;  he'd  see  how 
ridiculous  it  would  make  him  appear,  and  he'd 
die  rather  than  give  in,  and  yet  Mary  Waycroft 
knows  something  about  human  nature,  and  she  said 
—Mary  said- 
Far  up  the  road  there  was  a  rumble  of  wheels. 
Pete  McQuill  would  let  his  horses  go  rapidly  down- 
hill, and  that,  perhaps,  was  his  wagon.  It  was. 
She  recognized  the  gaunt,  underfed  white-and-bay 
pair  through  the  trees  on  the  mountain-side.  Then 
Ann  became  all  activity.  She  discovered  that  one 

96 


Ann   Boyd 

of  the  rails  of  the  panel  of  fence  near  by  had  quite 
rotted  away,  leaving  an  opening  wide  enough  to 
admit  of  the  passage  of  a  small  pig.  To  repair  such 
a  break  she  usually  took  a  sound  rail  from  some 
portion  of  the  fence  that  was  high  enough  to  spare 
it,  and  this  she  now  did,  and  was  diligently  at  work 
when  the  wagon  finally  reached  her.  She  did  not 
look  up,  although  she  plainly  heard  Mrs.  Way- 
croft's  voice  as  she  asked  McQuill  to  stop. 

"You  might  as  well  let  me  out  here,"  the  widow 
said.  "I'll  walk  back  with  Mrs.  Boyd." 

The  wagon  was  lumbering  on  its  way  when  Ann 
turned  her  set  face,  down  which  drops  of  perspira- 
tion were  rolling,  towards  her  approaching  friend. 

"You  caught  me  hard  at  it."  She  tried  to  smile 
casually.  "  Do  you  know  patching  fence  is  the 
toughest  work  on  a  farm — harder  'n  splitting  rails, 
that  men  complain  so  much  about." 

"  It's  a  man's  work,  Ann,  and  a  big,  strong  one's, 
too.  You  ought  never  to  tax  your  strength  like 
that.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  lifted  that 
stack  of  rails  to  put  in  the  new  one." 

"  Yes,  but  what's  that  ?"  Ann  smiled.  "  I  shoul- 
dered a  hundred-and-fifty-pound  sack  of  salt  the 
other  day,  and  it  was  as  hard  as  a  block  of  stone. 
I'm  used  to  anything.  But  I'm  through  now. 
Let's  walk  on  home  and  have  a  bite  to  eat." 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  much  whether — " 
Mrs.  Waycroft  paused  and  started  again.  "You 
haven't  forgotten  what  I  said  I'd  try  to  find  out 
over  there,  have  you,  Ann?" 

"  Me  ?  Oh  no,  but  I  reckon  I'm  about  pegged  out 
with  all  I've  done  this  morning.  Don't  I  look  tired  ?" 

97 


Ann  Boyd 

"  You  don't  looked  tired — you  look  worried,  Ann. 
I  know  you;  you  needn't  try  to  hide  your  feelings 
from  me.  We  are  both  women.  When  you  are 
suffering  the  most  you  beat  about  the  bush  more 
than  any  other  time.  That's  why  this  is  going  to 
be  so  hard  for  me." 

"It's  going  to  be  hard  for  you,  then?"  Ann's 
impulsive  voice  sounded  hollow;  her  face  had  sud- 
denly grown  pale.  "  I  know  what  that  means.  It 
means  that  Joe  set  his  foot  down  against  me  and — " 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  all,  every  blessed  word, 
Ann,  but  you've  already  had  too  much  trouble  in 
this  life,  and  I  feel  like  I  was  such  a  big,  ignorant 
fool  to  get  this  thing  up  and  make  such  a  mess  of  it." 

Ann  climbed  over  the  fence  and  stood  in  the 
road  beside  her  companion.  Her  face  was  twisted 
awry  by  some  force  bound  up  within  her.  She 
laid  her  big,  toil-worn  hand  on  Mrs.  Waycroft's 
shoulder. 

"Now,  looky  here,"  she  said,  harshly.  "I'm 
going  to  hear  every  word  and  know  everything  that 
took  place.  You  must  not  leave  out  one  single 
item.  I've  got  the  right  to  know  it  all,  and  I  will. 
Now,  you  start  in." 

"I  hardly  know  how,  Ann,"  the  other  woman 
faltered.  "  I  didn't  know  folks  in  this  world  could 
have  so  little  human  pity  or  forgiveness." 

"You  go  ahead,  do  you  hear  me?  You  blaze 
away.  I  can  stand  under  fire.  I'm  no  kitten.  Go 
ahead,  I  tell  you." 

"  Well,  Ann,  I  met  Joe  and  Nettie  day  before  yes- 
terday at  bush-arbor  meeting.  Joe  was  there,  and 
looked  slouchier  and  more  downhearted  than  he 

98 


Ann   Boyd 

ever  did  in  his  life,  and  Nettie  was  there  with  the 
young  man  she  is  about  to  marry — a  tall,  serious- 
faced,  parson-like  young  man,  a  Mr.  Lawson.  Well, 
after  meeting,  while  he  was  off  feeding  his  horse,  I 
made  a  break  and  got  the  girl  by  herself.  Well, 
Ann,  from  all  I  could  gather,  she — well,  she  didn't 
look  at  it  favorably." 

"Stop!"  Ann  cried,  peremptorily,  "I  don't  want 
any  shirking.  I  want  to  hear  actually  every  word 
she  said.  This  thing  may  never  come  up  between 
you  and  me  again  while  the  sun  shines,  and  I  want 
the  truth.  You  are  not  toting  fair.  I  want  the 
facts  —  every  word  the  girl  said,  every  look,  every 
bat  of  the  eye,  every  sneer.  I'm  prepared.  You 
talk  plain — plain,  I  tell  you!" 

"  I  see  I'll  have  to,"  sighed  Mrs.  Waycroft,  her  eyes 
averted  from  the  awful  stare  in  Ann's  eyes.  "The 
truth  is,  Ann,  Nettie's  been  thinking  all  her  life, 
till  just  about  a  month  ago,  that  you  were — dead. 
Joe  Boyd  told  her  you  was  dead  and  buried,  and 
got  all  the  neighbors  to  keep  the  truth  from  her. 
It  leaked  out  when  she  got  engaged  to  young  Law- 
son;  his  folks,  Ann,  they  are  as  hide-bound  and 
narrow  as  the  worst  hard-shell  Baptists  here — his 
folks  raised  objections  and  tried  to  break  it  off." 

"  On  account  of  me  ?"  said  Ann,  under  her  breath. 

"Well,  they  tried  to  break  it  off,"  evaded  Mrs. 
Waycroft,  "and,  in  all  the  trouble  over  it,  Nettie 
found  out  the  facts — Joe  finally  told  her.  They 
say,  Ann,  that  it  brought  her  down  to  a  sick-bed. 
She's  a  queer  sort  of  selfish  girl,  that  had  always 
held  her  head  too  high,  and  the  discovery  went  hard 
with  her.  Then,  Ann,  the  meanest  thing  that  was 

99 


Ann    Boyd 

ever  done  by  a  human  being  took  place.  Jane 
Hemingway  was  over  there  visiting  a  preacher's 
wife  she  used  to  know,  and  she  set  in  circulation  the 
blackest  lie  that  was  ever  afloat.  Ann,  she  told  over 
there  that  all  your  means — all  the  land  and  money 
you  have  made  by  hard  toil,  big  brain,  and  saving — 
come  to  you  underhand." 

"Underhand?"  Ann  exclaimed.  "What  did  she 
mean  by  that,  pray?  What  could  the  old  she-cat 
mean  by- 
Mrs.  Waycroft  drew  her  sun-bonnet  down  over 
her  eyes.  She  took  a  deep  breath.  "Ann,  she's  a 
terrible  woman.  I  used  to  think  maybe  you  went 
too  far  in  hating  her  so  much,  but  I  don't  blame 
you  now  one  bit.  On  the  way  over  the  mountain,  I 
looked  all  the  circumstances  over,  and  actually  made 
up  my  mind  that  you'd  almost  be  justified  in  kill- 
ing her,  law  or  no  law.  Ann,  she  circulated  a  re- 
port over  there  that  all  you  own  in  the  world  was 
given  to  you  by  Colonel  Chester." 

' '  Ugh !  Oh ,  my  God ! ' '  Ann  groaned  like  a  strong 
man  in  sudden  pain ;  and  then,  with  her  face  hidden 
by  her  poke-bonnet,  she  trudged  heavily  along  by 
her  companion  in  total  silence. 

"I've  told  you  the  worst  now,"  Mrs.  Waycroft 
said.  "  Nettie  had  heard  all  that,  and  so  had  Law- 
son.  His  folks  finally  agreed  to  raise  no  objections 
to  the  match  if  she'd  never  mention  your  name. 
Naturally,  when  I  told  her  about  what  I  thought 
maybe — you  understand,  maybe — you'd  be  willing  to 
do  she  was  actually  scared.  She  cried  pitifully,  and 
begged  me  never  to  allow  you  to  bother  her.  She 
said — I  told  you  she  looked  like  a  selfish  creature— 

IOO 


Ann   Boyd 

that  if  the  Lawsons  were  to  find  out  that  you'd 
been  sending  her  messages  it  might  spoil  all.  I 
told  her  it  was  all  a  lie  of  Jane  Hemingway's  mak- 
ing out  of  whole  cloth,  but  the  silly  girl  wouldn't 
listen.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  have  a  spasm." 

They  had  reached  the  gate,  and,  with  a  firm, 
steady  hand,  Ann  opened  it  and  held  it  ajar  for  her 
guest  to  enter  before  her. 

They  trudged  along  the  gravel  walk,  bordered 
with  uneven  stones,  to  the  porch  and  went  in.  On 
entering  the  house  Ann  always  took  off  her  bonnet. 
She  seemed  to  forget  its  existence  now. 

"Yes,  I  hate  that  woman,"  Mrs.  Way  croft  heard 
her  mutter,  "and  if  the  Lord  doesn't  furnish  me 
with  some  way  of  getting  even  I'll  die  a  miserable 
death.  I  could  willingly  see  her  writhe  on  a  bed 
of  live  coals.  No  hell  could  be  hot  enough  for  that 
woman."  Ann  paused  suddenly  at  the  door,  and 
gazed  across  the  green  expanse  towards  Jane's 
house.  Mrs.  Waycroft  heard  her  utter  a  sudden, 
harsh  laugh.  "And  I  think  I  see  her  punishment 
on  the  way.  I  see  it — I  see  it!" 

"What  is  it  you  say  you  see?"  the  visitor  asked, 
curiously. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  Ann  said,  and  she  sat  down 
heavily  in  her  chair  and  tightly  locked  her  calloused 
hands  in  front  of  her. 


XI 


fHE  continuous  dry  weather  during 
the  month  of  June  had  caused  many 
springs  and  a  few  wells  to  become  dry, 
and  the  women  of  that,  section  found 
it  difficult  to  get  sufficient  soft  wa- 
ter for  the  washing  of  clothes.  Mrs.  Hemingway, 
whose  own  well  was  fed  from  a  vein  of  limestone 
water  too  hard  to  be  of  much  use  in  that  way,  re- 
membered a  certain  rock-bottom  pool  in  a  shaded 
nook  at  the  foot  of  the  rugged  hill  back  of  her 
house  where  at  all  times  of  the  year  a  quantity  of 
soft,  clear  water  was  to  be  found;  so  thither,  with 
a  great  bundle  of  household  linen  tied  up  in  a  sheet, 
she  went  one  morning  shortly  after  breakfast. 

Her  secret  ailment  had  not  seemed  to  improve 
under  the  constant  application  of  the  peddler's 
medicine,  and,  as  her  doubts  of  ultimate  recovery 
increased  correspondingly,  her  strength  seemed  to 
wane.  Hence  she  paused  many  times  on  the  way 
to  the  pool  to  rest.  Finally  arriving  at  the  spot 
and  lowering  her  burden,  she  met  a  great  and  ir- 
ritating surprise,  for,  bending  over  a  tub  at  the 
edge  of  the  pool,  and  quite  in  command  of  the  only 
desirable  space  for  the  placing  of  tubs  and  the 
sunning  of  articles,  was  Ann  Boyd.  Their  eyes  met 
in  a  stare  of  indecision  like  that  of  two  wild  animals 

102 


Ann    Boyd 

meeting  in  a  forest,  and  there  was  a  moment's  pre- 
liminary silence.  It  was  broken  by  an  angry  out- 
burst from  the  new-comer.  "Huh!"  she  grunted, 
"  you  here?" 

It  was  quickly  echoed  by  a  satisfied  laugh  from 
the  depths  of  Ann's  sun-bonnet.  "You  bet,  old 
lady,  I've  beat  you  to  the  tank.  You've  toted  your 
load  here  for  nothing.  You  might  go  down-stream 
a  few  miles  and  find  a  hole  good  enough  for  your 
few  dirty  rags.  I've  used  about  all  this  up.  It's 
getting  too  muddy  to  do  any  good,  but  I've  got 
about  all  I  want." 

"This  land  isn't  yours,"  Jane  Hemingway  as- 
serted, almost  frothing  at  the  mouth.  "  It  belongs 
to  Jim  Sansom." 

"Jim  may  hold  deeds  to  it,"  Ann  laughed  again, 
"but  he's  too  poor  to  fence  it  in.  I  reckon  it's 
public  property,  or  you  wouldn't  have  lugged  that 
dirty  load  all  the  way  through  the  broiling  sun  on 
that  weak  back  of  yours." 

Jane  Hemingway  stood  panting  over  her  big 
snowball.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  She  could  not 
find  a  use  for  her  tongue.  Through  her  long  siege  of 
underhand  warfare  against  the  woman  at  the  tub 
she  had  wisely  avoided  a  direct  clash  with  Ann's 
eye,  tongue,  or  muscle.  She  was  more  afraid  of  those 
things  to-day  than  she  had  ever  been.  A  chill  of 
strange  terror  had  gone  through  her,  too,  at  the 
mention  of  her  weak  back.  That  the  peddler  had 
told  Ann  about  the  cancer  she  now  felt  was  more 
likely  than  ever.  Without  a  word,  Jane  bent  to  lift 
her  bundle,  but  her  enemy,  dashing  the  water  from 
her  big,  crinkled  hands,  had  advanced  towards  her. 

103 


Ann   Boyd 

"You  just  wait  a  minute,"  Ann  said,  sharply,  her 
great  eyes  flashing,  her  hands  resting  on  her  stocky 
hips.  "I've  got  something  to  say  to  you,  and  I'm 
glad  to  get  this  chance.  What  I've  got  to  hurl  in 
your  death  -  marked  face,  Jane  Hemingway,  isn't 
for  other  ears.  It's  for  your  own  rotting  soul.  Now, 
you  listen!" 

Jane  Hemingway  gasped.  "Death-marked  face," 
the  root  of  her  paralyzed  tongue  seemed  to  articu- 
late to  the  wolf -pack  of  fears  within  her.  Her  thin 
legs  began  to  shake,  and,  to  disguise  the  weakness 
from  her  antagonist's  lynx  eyes,  she  sank  down  upon 
her  bundle.  It  yielded  even  to  her  slight  weight, 
and  her  sharp  knees  rose  to  a  level  with  her  chin. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  managed  to 
say,  almost  in  a  tone  of  appeal. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  you  trifling  hussy,  but  I  do 
to  you,  Jane  Hemingway.  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
what  you  are.  You  are  worse  than  a  thief — than 
a  negro  thief  that  steals  corn  from  a  crib  at  night, 
or  meat  from  a  smoke-house.  You  are  a  low-lived, 
plotting  liar.  For  years  you  have  railed  out  against 
my  character.  I  was  a  bad  woman  because  I  ad- 
mitted my  one  fault  of  girlhood,  but  you  married  a 
man  and  went  to  bed  with  him  that  you  didn't  love 
a  speck.  You  did  that  to  try  to  hide  a  real  love  for 
another  man  who  was  another  woman's  legal  hus- 
band. Are  you  listening  ? — I  say,  are  you  listening?" 

"Yes,  I'm  listening,"  faltered  Jane  Hemingway, 
her  face  hidden  under  her  bonnet. 

"Well,  you'd  better.  When  I  had  my  first  great 
trouble,  God  is  witness  to  the  fact  that  I  thought  I 
loved  the  young  scamp  who  brought  it  about.  I 

104 


Ann    Boyd 

thought  I  loved  him,  anyway.  That's  all  the  ex- 
cuse I  had  for  not  listening  to  advice  of  older  people. 
I  wasn't  old  enough  to  know  right  from  wrong,  and, 
like  lots  of  other  young  girls,  I  was  bull-headed.  My 
mother  never  was  strict  with  me,  and  nobody  else  was 
interested  in  me  enough  to  learn  me  self -protection. 
I've  since  then  been  through  college  in  that  line,  and 
such  low,  snaky  agents  of  hell  as  you  are  were  my 
professors.  No  wonder  you  have  hounded  me  all 
these  years.  You  loved  Joe  Boyd  with  all  the  soul 
you  had  away  back  there,  and  you  happened  to  be 
the  sort  that  couldn't  stand  refusal.  So  when  you 
met  him  that  day  on  the  road,  and  he  told  you  he 
was  on  the  way  to  ask  me  the  twentieth  time  to  be 
his  wife,  you  followed  him  a  mile  and  fell  on  his 
neck  and  threatened  suicide,  and  begged  and  cried 
and  screamed  so  that  the  wheat-cutting  gang  at 
Judmore's  wondered  if  somebody's  house  was  afire. 
But  he  told  you  a  few  things  about  what  he  thought 
of  me,  and  they  have  rankled  with  you  through 
your  honeymoon  with  an  unloved  husband,  through 
your  period  of  childbirth,  and  now  as  you  lean  over 
your  grave.  Bad  woman  that  you  are,  you  mar- 
ried a  man  you  had  no  respect  for  to  hide  your  dis- 
appointment in  another  direction.  You  are  decent 
in  name  only.  Thank  God,  my  own  conscience  is 
clear.  I've  been  wronged  all  my  life  more  than  I 
ever  wronged  beast  or  man.  I  had  trouble;  but  I 
did  no  wrong  according  to  my  dim  lights.  But  you 
• — you  with  one  man's  baby  on  your  breast  went  on 
hounding  the  wife  of  another  who  had  won  what 
you  couldn't  get.  You,  I  reckon,  love  Joe  Boyd  to 
this  day,  and  will  the  rest  of  your  life.  I  reckon 
8  105 


Ann    Boyd 

you  thought  when  he  left  me  that  he  would  marry 
you,  but  no  man  cares  for  a  woman  that  cries  after 
him.  You  even  went  over  there  to  Gilmer  a  month 
or  so  ago  to  try  to  attract  his  attention  with  new 
finery  bought  on  a  credit,  and  you  even  made  up  to 
the  daughter  that  was  stolen  from  me,  but  I  have  it 
from  good  authority  that  neither  one  of  them  wanted 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  you." 

"There's  not  a  bit  of  truth  in  that,"  said  the 
weaker  woman,  in  feeble  self-defence.  She  would 
have  said  some  of  the  things  she  was  always  saying 
to  others  but  for  fear  that,  driven  further,  the  strong 
woman  might  actually  resort  to  violence.  No,  there 
was  nothing  for  Jane  Hemingway  to  do  but  to  listen. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  deny,"  Ann  hurled 
at  her.  "I  know  what  I'm  talking  about."  Then 
Ann's  rage  led  her  to  say  something  which,  in  calmer 
mood,  she  would,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  not  have 
even  hinted  at.  "Look  here,  Jane,"  she  went  on, 
bending  down  and  touching  the  shrinking  shoulder 
of  her  enemy,  "  in  all  your  life  you  never  heard  me 
accused  of  making  false  predictions.  When  I  say 
a  thing,  folks  know  that  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about  and  look  for  it  to  happen.  So  now  I  say, 
positively,  that  I'm  going  to  get  even  with  you. 
Hell  and  all  its  inmates  have  been  at  your  back  for 
a  score  of  years,  but  God — Providence,  the  law  of 
nature,  or  whatever  it  is  that  rights  wrong — is  bound 
to  prevail,  and  you  are  going  to  face  a  misfortune— 
a  certain  sort  of  misfortune — that  I  know  all  about. 
I  reckon  I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself  in  preparing 
you  for  it,  but  I'm  so  glad  it's  coming  that  I've  got 
to  tell  it  to  somebody.  When  the  grim  time  comes 

1 06 


Ann    Boyd 

I  want  you  to  remember  that  you  brought  it  on 
yourself." 

Ann  ceased  speaking  and  stood  all  of  a  quiver 
before  the  crouching  creature.  Jane  Hemingway's 
blood,  at  best  sluggish  of  action,  turned  cold. 
With  her  face  hidden  by  her  bonnet,  she  sat  staring 
at  the  ground.  All  her  remaining  strength  seemed 
to  have  left  her.  She  well  knew  what  Ann  meant. 
The  peddler  had  told  her  secret — had  even  revealed 
more  of  the  truth  than  he  had  to  her.  Discovering 
that  Ann  hated  her,  he  had  gone  into  grim  and  mi- 
nute particulars  over  her  affliction.  He  had  told  Ann 
the  cancer  was  fatal,  that  the  quack  lotion  he  had 
sold  would  only  keep  the  patient  from  using  a  better 
remedy  or  resorting  to  the  surgeon's  knife.  In  any 
case,  her  fate  was  sealed,  else  Ann  would  not  be  so 
positive  about  it. 

"  I  see  I  hit  you  all  right  that  pop,  madam!"  Ann 
chuckled.  "  Well,  you  will  wait  the  day  in  fear  and 
trembling  that  is  to  be  my  sunrise  of  joy.  Now, 
pick  up  your  duds  and  go  home.  I  want  you  out  of 
my  sight." 

Like  a  subject  under  hypnotic  suggestion,  Jane 
Hemingway,  afraid  of  Ann,  and  yet  more  afraid  of 
impending  fate,  rose  to  her  feet.  Ann  had  turned 
back  to  her  tub  and  bent  over  it.  Jane  felt  a  feeble 
impulse  to  make  some  defiant  retort,  but  could  not 
rouse  her  bound  tongue  to  action.  In  her  helpless- 
ness and  fear  she  hated  her  enemy  more  than  ever 
before,  but  could  find  no  adequate  way  of  showing  it. 
The  sun  had  risen  higher  and  its  rays  beat  fiercely 
down  on  her  thin  back,  as  she  managed  to  shoulder 
her  bundle  and  move  homeward. 

107 


XII 


had  scarcely  turned  the  bend  in 
the  path,  and  was  barely  out  of  Ann's 
view,  when  she  had  to  lower  her  bundle 
and  rest.  Seated  on  a  moss-grown 
stone  near  the  dry  bed  of  the  stream 
which  had  fed  Ann's  pool  before  the  drought,  she 
found  herself  taking  the  most  morbid  view  of  her 
condition.  The  delicate  roots  of  the  livid  growth 
on  her  breast  seemed  to  be  insidiously  burrowing 
more  deeply  towards  her  heart  than  ever  before. 
Ah,  what  a  fool  she  had  been  at  such  a  crisis  to  lis- 
ten to  an  idle  tramp,  who  had  not  only  given  her  a 
stone  when  she  had  paid  for  bread,  but  had  revealed 
her  secret  to  the  one  person  she  had  wished  to  keep 
it  from !  But  she  essayed  to  convince  herself  that  all 
hope  was  not  gone,  and  the  very  warning  Ann  had 
angrily  uttered  might  be  turned  to  advantage.  She 
would  now  be  open  about  her  trouble,  since  Ann 
knew  it,  anyway,  and  perhaps  medical  skill  might 
help  her,  even  yet,  to  triumph.  Under  that  faint 
inspiration  she  shouldered  her  burden  and  crept 
slowly  homeward. 

Reaching  her  cottage,  she  dropped  the  ball  of 
clothes  at  the  door  and  went  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  Virginia  sat  complacently  sewing  at  a  window 
on  the  shaded  side  of  the  house.  The  girl  had  only  a 

108 


Ann    Boyd 

few  moments  before  washed  her  long,  luxuriant  hair, 
and  it  hung  loose  and  beautiful  in  the  warm  air. 
She  was  merrily  singing  a  song,  and  hardly  looked  at 
her  mother  as  she  paused  near  her. 

"Hush,  for  God's  sake,  hush!"  Jane  groaned. 
"Don't  you  see  I'm  unable  to  stand?" 

In  sheer  astonishment  Virginia  turned  her  head 
and  noticed  her  mother's  pale,  long-drawn  face. 
"What  is  it,  mother,  are  you  sick?" 

By  way  of  reply  the  old  woman  sank  into  one  of 
the  hide-bottomed  chairs  near  the  open  doorway 
and  groaned  again.  Quickly  rising,  and  full  of 
grave  concern,  the  girl  advanced  to  her.  Standing 
over  the  bowed  form,  she  looked  out  through  the 
doorway  and  saw  the  bundle  of  clothes. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  mother,  that  you 
have  carried  that  load  all  about  looking  for  water 
to  wash  in!"  she  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"Yes,  I  took  them  to  the  rock- pool  and  back;  but 
that  ain't  it,"  came  from  between  Jane's  scrawny 
hands,  which  were  now  spread  over  her  face.  "I 
am  strong  enough  bodily,  still,  but  I  met  Ann  Boyd 
down  there.  She  had  all  the  place  there  was,  and 
had  muddied  up  the  water.  Virginia,  she  knows 
about  that  spot  on  my  breast  that  the  medicine 
peddler  said  was  a  cancer.  She  wormed  it  out  of 
him.  He  told  her  more  than  he  did  me.  He  told 
her  it  would  soon  drag  me  to  the  grave.  It's  a  great 
deal  worse  than  it  was  before  I  began  to  rub  his 
stuff  on  it.  He's  a  quack.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  go 
to  a  regular  doctor  right  at  the  start." 

"You  think,  then,  that  it  really  is  a  cancer?" 
gasped  the  girl,  and  she  turned  pale. 

109 


Ann   Boyd 

"Yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  now,  from  the  way  it 
looks  and  from  the  way  that  woman  gloated  over 
me.  She  declared  she  knew  all  about  it,  and  that 
nothing  on  earth  had  made  her  so  glad.  I  want  to 
see  Dr.  Evans.  I  wish  you'd  run  over  to  his  house 
and  have  him  come." 

"But  he's  not  a  regular  doctor,"  protested  the 
girl,  mildly.  "They  say  he  is  not  allowed  to  prac- 
tise, and  that  he  only  uses  remedies  of  his  own 
making.  The  physicians  at  Darley  were  talking  of 
having  him  arrested  not  long  ago." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  that,"  Jane  said,  petulantly, 
"but  that's  because  he  cured  one  or  two  after  they 
had  been  given  up  by  licensed  doctors.  He  knows 
a  lots,  and  he  will  tell  me,  anyway,  whether  I've 
got  a  cancer  or  not.  He  knows  what  they  are.  He 
told  Mrs.  Hiram  Snodgrass  what  her  tumor  was, 
and  under  his  advice  she  went  to  Atlanta  and  had 
it  cut  out,  and  saved  her  life  when  two  doctors  was 
telling  her  it  was  nothing  but  a  blood  eruption  that 
would  pass  off.  You  know  he  is  good-hearted." 

With  a  troubled  nod,  Virginia  admitted  that  this 
was  true.  Her  sweet  mouth  was  drawn  down  in 
pained  concern,  a  stare  of  horror  lay  in  her  big, 
gentle  eyes.  "I'll  go  bring  him,"  she  promised. 
"  I  saw  him  pass  with  a  bag  of  meal  from  the  mill 
just  now." 

"Well,  tell  him  not  to  say  anything  about  it," 
Jane  cautioned  her.  "  Evidently  Ann  Boyd  has  not 
talked  about  it  much,  and  I  don't  want  it  to  be  all 
over  the  neighborhood.  I  despise  pity.  I'm  not 
used  to  it.  If  it  gets  out,  the  tongues  of  these  busy- 
bodies  would  run  me  stark  crazy.  They  would 

no 


Ann    Boyd 

roost  here  like  a  swarm  of  buzzards  over  a  dying 
horse." 

Virginia  returned  in  about  half  an  hour,  accom- 
panied by  a  gray-headed  and  full-whiskered  man  of 
about  seventy  years  of  age,  who  had  any  other  than 
the  look  of  even  a  country  doctor.  He  wore  no 
coat,  and  his  rough  shirt  was  without  button  from 
his  hairy  neck  to  the  waistband  of  his  patched  and 
baggy  trousers.  His  fat  hands  were  too  much 
calloused  by  labor  in  the  field  and  forest,  and  by 
digging  for  roots  and  herbs,  to  have  felt  the  pulse 
of  anything  more  delicate  than  an  ox,  and  under 
less  grave  circumstances  his  assumed  air  of  the  reg- 
ular visiting  physician  would  have  had  its  comic 
side. 

"Virginia  tells  me  you  are  a  little  upset  to-day," 
he  said,  easily,  after  he  had  gone  to  the  water- 
bucket  and  taken  a  long,  slow  drink  from  the  gourd. 
He  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the  widow,  and  laid  his 
straw  hat  upon  the  floor,  from  which  it  was  prompt- 
ly removed  by  Virginia  to  one  of  the  beds.  "  Let 
me  take  a  look  at  your  tongue." 

"  I'll  do  no  such  of  a  thing,"  retorted  Jane,  most 
flatly.  "There  is  nothing  wrong  with  my  stomach. 
I  am  afraid  I've  got  a  cancer  on  my  breast,  and  I 
want  to  make  sure." 

"You  don't  say!"  Evans  exclaimed.  "Well,  it 
wouldn't  surprise  me.  I  see  'em  mighty  often  these 
days.  Well,  you'd  better  let  me  look  at  it.  Stand 
thar  in  the  door  so  I  can  get  a  good  light.  I'm  wear- 
ing my  wife's  specks.  I  don't  know  whar  I  laid  mine, 
but  I  hope  I'll  get  'em  back.  I  only  paid  twenty- 
five  cents  for  'em  in  Darley,  and  yet  three  of  my 

in 


Ann    Boyd 

neighbors  has  taken  such  a  liking  to  'em  that  I've 
been  offered  as  high  as  three  dollars  for  'em,  and 
they  are  only  steel  rims  and  are  sorter  shackly  at 
the  hinges  at  that.  Every  time  Gus  Willard  wants 
to  write  a  letter  he  sends  over  for  my  specks  and 
lays  his  aside.  I  reckon  he  thinks  I'll  get  tired 
sendin'  back  for  'em  and  get  me  another  pair.  Now, 
that's  right "  —  Mrs.  Hemingway  had  taken  a 
stand  in  one  of  the  rear  doors  and  unbuttoned  her 
dress.  Despite  her  stoicism,  she  found  herself  hold- 
ing her  breath  in  fear  and  suspense  as  to  what  his 
opinion  would  be.  Virginia,  pale  and  with  a  faint- 
ing sensation,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  nearest  bed, 
her  shapely  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap.  She 
saw  Dr.  Evans  bend  close  to  her  mother's  breast 
and  touch  and  press  the  livid  spot. 

"Do  you  feel  that?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  and  it  hurts  some  when  you  do  that." 

"How  long  have  you  had  it  thar?"  he  paused 
in  his  examination  to  ask,  peering  over  the  rims  of 
his  spectacles. 

"  I  noticed  it  first  about  a  year  ago,  but  thought 
nothing  much  about  it,"  she  answered. 

"And  never  showed  it  to  nobody?"  he  said,  re- 
provingly. 

"  I  let  a  peddler,  who  had  stuff  to  sell,  see  it  awhile 
back."  There  was  a  touch  of  shame  in  Jane's  face. 
"He  said  his  medicine  would  make  it  slough  off, 
but—" 

"Slough  nothing!  That  trifling  skunk!"  Evans 
cried.  "Why,  he's  the  biggest  fake  unhung!  He 
sold  that  same  stuff  over  the  mountain  to  bald- 
headed  men  to  make  hair  grow.  Huh,  I  say!  they 

112 


Ann   Boyd 

talk  about  handling  me  by  law,  and  kicking  me  out 
of  the  country  on  account  of  my  knowledge  and 
skill,  and  let  chaps  like  him  scour  the  country  from 
end  to  end  for  its  last  cent.  What  the  devil  gets 
into  you  women  ?  Here  you've  let  this  thing  go  on 
sinking  its  fangs  deeper  and  deeper  in  your  breast, 
and  only  fertilizing  it  by  the  treatment  he  was  giv- 
ing you.  Are  you  hankering  for  a  change  of  air? 
Thar  was  Mrs.  Tel  worthy,  that  let  her  liver  run  on 
till  she  was  as  yaller  as  a  pumpkin  with  jaundice 
before  she'd  come  to  me.  I  give  'er  two  bottles  of 
my  purifier,  and  she  could  eat  a  barbecued  ox  in 
a  month." 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do  about  this?" 
asked  Jane;  and  Virginia,  with  strange  qualms  at 
heart,  thought  that  her  mother  had  put  it  that 
way  to  avoid  asking  if  the  worst  was  really  to  be 
faced. 

Evans  stroked  his  bushy  beard  wisely.  "Do 
about  it?"  he  repeated,  as  he  went  back  to  his  chair, 
leaving  the  patient  to  button  her  dress  with  stiff, 
fumbling  fingers.  "I  mought  put  you  on  a  course 
of  my  blood  purifier  and  wait  developments,  and, 
Sister  Hemingway,  if  I  was  like  the  regular  run 
of  doctors,  with  their  own  discoveries  on  the  mar- 
ket, I'd  do  it  in  the  interest  of  science,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  take  the  resk  on  my  shoulders.  A  man 
who  gives  domestic  remedies  like  mine  is  on  safe 
ground  when  he's  treating  ordinary  diseases,  but 
I  reckon  a  medical  board  would  decide  that  this  was 
a  case  for  a  good,  steady  knife.  Now,  I  reckon 
you'd  better  get  on  the  train  and  take  a  run  down 
to  Atlanta  and  put  yourself  under  Dr.  Putnam,  who 


Ann    Boyd 

is  noted  far  and  wide  as  the  best  cancer  expert  in 
the  land." 

"Then — then  that's  what  it  is?"  faltered  Mrs. 
Hemingway. 

"Oh  yes,  that's  what  you've  got,  all  right 
enough,"  said  Evans,  "and  the  thing  now  is  to 
uproot  it." 

"How — how  much  would  it  be  likely  to  cost?" 
the  widow  asked,  her  troubled  glance  on  Virginia's 
horror-stricken  face. 

"That  depends,"  mused  Evans.  "I've  sent  Put- 
nam a  number  of  cases,  and  he  would,  I  think,  make 
you  a  special  widow-rate,  being  as  you  and  me  live 
so  nigh  each  other.  At  a  rough  guess,  I'd  say  that 
everything — board  and  room  and  nurse,  treatment, 
medicines,  and  attention — would  set  you  back  a  hun- 
dred dollars." 

"  But  where  am  I  to  get  that  much  money?"  Jane 
said,  despondently. 

"Well,  thar  you  have  me,"  Evans  laughed.  "I 
reckon  you  know  your  resources  better  than  any- 
body else,  but  you'll  have  to  rake  it  up  some  way. 
You  ain't  ready  to  die  yet.  Callihan  has  a  mort- 
gage on  your  land,  hain't  he?" 

"Yes,  and  on  my  crop  not  yet  gathered,"  Jane 
sighed;  "he  even  included  every  old  hoe  and  axe 
and  piece  of  harness,  and  the  cow  and  calf,  and  every 
chair  and  knife  and  fork  and  cracked  plate  in  the 
house." 

"Well,"  and  Evans  rose  and  reached  for  his  hat, 
"as  I  say,  you'll  have  to  get  up  the  money;  it  will 
be  the  best  investment  you  could  make." 

When  he  had  left,  Virginia,  horror-stricken,  sat 
114 


Ann    Boyd 

staring  at  her  mother,  a  terrible  fear  in  her  face  and 
eyes. 

"Then  it  really  is  a  cancer?"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid  it  was  all  along,"  said  Jane. 
"You  see,  the  peddler  said  so  plainly,  and  he  told 
Ann  Boyd  about  it.  Virginia,  she  didn't  know  I  knew 
how  bad  it  was,  for  she  hinted  at  some  awful  end 
that  was  to  overtake  me,  as  if  it  would  be  news  to  me. 
Daughter,  I'm  going  to  try  my  level  best  to  throw 
this  thing  off.  I  always  had  a  fear  of  death.  My 
mother  had  before  me ;  she  was  a  Christian  woman, 
and  was  prepared,  if  anybody  was,  and  yet  she  died 
in  agony.  She  laid  in  bed  and  begged  for  help  with 
her  last  breath.  But  my  case  is  worse  than  hers, 
for  my  one  foe  in  this  life  is  watching  over  me  like 
a  hawk.  Oh,  I  can't  stand  it!  You  must  help  me 
study  up  some  way  to  raise  that  money.  If  it  was 
in  sight,  I'd  feel  better.  Doctors  can  do  wonders 
these  days,  and  I'll  go  to  that  big  one  if  I  possibly 
can." 


XIII 

!NE  afternoon,  about  a  week  later,  as 
Ann  Boyd  sat  in  her  weaving-room 
twisting  bunches  of  carded  wool  into 
yarn  on  her  old  spinning-wheel,  the 
whir  of  which  on  her  busy  days  could 
be  heard  by  persons  passing  along  the  road  in  front 
of  her  gate,  a  shadow  fell  on  her  floor,  and,  looking 
up,  she  saw  a  tall,  handsome  young  man  in  the  door- 
way, holding  his  hat  in  one  hand,  a  valise  in  the 
other.  He  said  nothing,  but  only  stood  smiling,  as  if 
in  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  surprise  he  was  giving  her. 
"Luke  King!"  she  exclaimed.  "You,  of  all  peo- 
ple on  the  face  of  the  earth!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Ann" — he  had  always  addressed 
her  in  that  way — "here  I  am,  like  a  bad  coin,  al- 
ways turning  up." 

The  yellow  bunches  of  wool  fell  to  the  floor  as 
she  rose  up  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"You  know  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,"  she 
said,  "but  I  wasn't  expecting  you;  I  don't  know 
as  I  ever  looked  for  you  to  come  back  here  again, 
where  you've  had  such  a  hard  time  of  it.  When 
you  wrote  me  you  was  the  chief  editor  of  a  paying 
paper  out  there,  I  said  to  myself  that  you'd  never 
care  to  work  here  in  the  mountains,  where  there  is 
so  little  to  be  made  by  a  brainy  man." 

116 


Ann    Boyd 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  main  thing  that  brought 
me  back  you'd  certainly  scold  me,"  he  laughed; 
"but  I  never  hid  a  fault  from  you,  Aunt  Ann.  The 
truth  is,  good,  old-fashioned  homesickness  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it." 

"Homesickness,  for  this?"  Ann  sneered  con- 
temptuously, as  she  waved  her  hand  broadly — 
"  homesick  for  the  hard  bed  you  had  -at  your  step- 
father's, in  a  pine -pole  cabin,  with  a  mud  chim- 
ney and  windows  without  glass,  when  you've  been 
the  equal,  out  there,  of  the  highest  and  best  in  the 
land,  and  among  folks  that  could  and  would  appre- 
ciate your  talents  and  energy  and  were  able  to  pay 
cash  for  it  at  the  highest  market-price?" 

"You  don't  understand,  Aunt  Ann."  He  flushed 
sensitively  under  her  stare  of  disapproval  as  he 
sat  down  in  a  chair  near  her  wheel.  "  Maybe  you 
never  did  understand  me  thoroughly.  I  always  had 
a  big  stock  of  sentiment  that  I  couldn't  entirely 
kill.  Aunt  Ann,  all  my  life  away  has  only  made  me 
love  these  old  mountains,  hills,  and  valleys  more 
than  ever,  and,  finally,  when  a  good  opportunity 
presented  itself,  as — " 

"  Oh,  you  are  just  like  the  rest,  after  all.  I'd  hoped 
to  the  contrary,"  Ann  sighed.  "But  don't  think 
I'm  not  glad  to  see  you,  Luke."  Her  voice  shook 
slightly.  "God  knows  I've  prayed  for  a  sight  of 
the  one  face  among  all  these  here  in  the  mountains 
that  seemed  to  respect  me,  but  there  was  another 
side  to  the  matter.  I  wanted  to  feel,  Luke,  that  I 
had  done  you  some  actual  good  in  the  world — that 
the  education  I  helped  you  to  get  was  going  to  lift 
you  high  above  the  average  man.  When  you  wrote 

117 


Ann     Boyd 

about  all  your  good-luck  out  there,  the  big  salary, 
the  interest  the  stockholders  had  given  you  in  the 
paper  that  bid  fair  to  make  a  pile  of  money,  and 
stood  so  high  in  political  influence,  I  was  delighted ; 
but,  Luke,  if  a  sentimental  longing  for  these  heart- 
less red  hills  and  their  narrow,  hide-bound  inhabi- 
tants has  caused  you  actually  to  throw  up — " 

"Oh,  it's  really  not  so  bad  as  that,"  King  has- 
ened  to  say.  "The  truth  is — though  I  really  was 
trying  to  keep  from  bragging  about  my  good-fortune 
before  I'd  had  a  chance  to  ask  after  your  health — 
the  truth  is,  Aunt  Ann,  it's  business  that  really 
brings  me  back,  though  I  confess  it  was  partly  for 
sentimental  reasons  that  I  decided  on  the  change. 
It's  this  way :  A  company  has  been  formed  in  Atlanta 
to  run  a  daily  paper  on  somewhat  similar  lines  to 
the  one  we  had  in  the  West,  and  the  promoters  of 
it,  it  seems,  have  been  watching  my  work,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  so,  only  a  few  days  ago,  they 
wrote  offering  me  a  good  salary  to  assume  chief 
charge  and  management  of  the  new  paper.  At 
first  I  declined,  in  a  deliberate  letter,  but  they 
wouldn't  have  it  that  way — they  telegraphed  me 
that  they  would  not  listen  to  a  refusal,  and  offered 
me  the  same  financial  interest  as  the  one  I  held." 

"Ah,  they  did,  eh?"  Ann's  eye  for  business  was 
gleaming.  "  They  offered  you  as  good  as  you  had  ?" 

"Better,  as  it  has  turned  out,  Aunt  Ann,"  said 
King,  modestly,  "for  when  my  associates  out  there 
read  the  proposition,  they  said  it  was  my  duty  to 
myself  to  accept,  and  with  that  they  took  my  stock 
off  my  hands.  They  paid  me  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars in  cash,  Aunt  Ann.  I've  got  that  much  ready 

118 


Ann    Boyd 

money  and  a  position  that  is  likely  to  be  even  bet- 
ter than  the  one  I  had.  So,  you  see,  all  my  home- 
sickness— " 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!"  Ann  cried,  her  strong 
face  full  of  gratification.  "Ten  thousand  dollars 
for  my  sturdy  mountain-boy!  Ah,  that  will  open 
the  eyes  of  some  of  these  indolent  know-it-all  louts 
who  said  the  money  spent  on  your  education  was 
thrown  in  the  fire.  You  are  all  right,  Luke.  I'm 
a  judge  of  human  stock  as  well  as  cattle  and  horses. 
If  you'd  been  a  light  fellow  you'd  have  dropped  me 
when  you  began  to  rise  out  there;  but  you  didn't. 
Your  letters  have  been  about  the  only  solace  I've 
had  here  in  all  my  loneliness  and  strife,  and  here 
you  are  to  see  me  as  soon  as  you  come — that  is,  I 
reckon,  you  haven't  been  here  many  days." 

"I  got  to  Darley  at  two  o'clock  to-day,"  King 
smiled,  affectionately.  "  I  took  the  hack  to  Spring- 
town  and  left  my  trunk  there,  to  walk  here.  I 
haven't  seen  mother  yet,  Aunt  Ann.  I  had  to  see 
you  first." 

"You  are  a  good  boy,  Luke,"  Ann  said,  with 
feeling,  as  was  indicated  by  her  husky  voice  and 
the  softening  of  her  features.  "So  you  are  going 
to  see  your  mother?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  see  her,  Aunt  Ann.  For  sev- 
eral years  I  have  felt  resentment  about  her  marry- 
ing as  she  did,  but,  do  you  know,  I  think  success  and 
good-fortune  mak^  one  forgiving.  Somehow,  with 
all  my  joy  over  my  good-luck,  I  feel  like  I'd  like  to 
shake  even  lazy  old  Mark  Bruce  by  the  hand  and 
tell  him  I  am  willing  to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones. 
Then,  if  I  could,  I'd  like  to  help  him  and  my  mother 

119 


Ann    Boyd 

and  step-brother  and  step-sisters  in  some  material 
way." 

"Huh!  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Ann  frowned. 
"  Help  given  to  them  sort  is  certainly  throwed  away ; 
besides,  what's  yours  is  yours,  and  if  you  started  in 
to  distribute  help  you'll  be  ridden  to  death.  No, 
go  to  see  them  if  you  have  to,  but  don't  let  them 
wheedle  your  justly  earned  money  out  of  you.  They 
don't  deserve  it,  Luke." 

"Oh,  well,  we'll  see  about  it,"  King  laughed, 
lightly.  "You  know  old  Bruce  may  kick  me  out 
of  the  house,  and  if  mother  stood  to  him  in  it 
again"  —  King's  eyes  were  flashing,  his  lip  was 
drawn  tight — "  I  guess  I'd  never  go  back  any  more, 
Aunt  Ann." 

"Old  Mark  would  never  send  you  away  if  he 
thought  you  had  money,"  Ann  said,  cynically.  "  If 
I  was  you  I'd  not  let  them  know  about  that.  You 
see,  you  could  keep  them  in  the  dark  easily  enough, 
for  I've  told  them  absolutely  nothing  except  that 
you  were  getting  along  fairly  well." 

King  smiled.  "They  never  would  think  I  had 
much  to  judge  by  this  suit  of  clothes,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  an  old  knockabout  rig  I  had  to  splash  around  in 
the  mud  in  while  out  hunting,  and  I  put  it  on  this 
morning — well,  just  because  I  did  not  want  to  come 
back  among  all  my  poor  relatives  and  friends 
dressed  up  as  I  have  been  doing  in  the  city,  Aunt 
Ann,"  he  laughed,  as  if  making  sport  of  himself. 
"I've  got  a  silk  high-hat  as  slick  as  goose-grease, 
and  a  long  jims winger  coat,  and  pants  that  are  al- 
ways ironed  as  sharp  as  a  knife-blade  in  front.  I 
took  your  advice  and  decided  that  a  good  appear- 

I2O 


Ann    Boyd 

ance  went  a  long  way,  but  I  don't  really  think  I 
overdid  it." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  put  on  style  in  coming 
back,  anyway,"  Ann  said,  proudly.  "It  wouldn't 
have  looked  well  in  you;  but  you  did  right  to  dress 
like  the  best  where  you  were,  and  it  had  something 
— a  lots,  I  imagine — to  do  with  your  big  success. 
If  you  want  to  go  in  and  win  in  any  undertaking, 
don't  think  failure  for  one  minute,  and  the  trouble 
is  that  shabby  clothes  are  a  continual  reminder  of 
poverty.  Make  folks  believe  at  the  outset  that 
you  are  of  the  best,  and  then  be  the  best." 

King  was  looking  down  thoughtfully.  "There 
is  one  trouble,"  he  said,  "in  making  a  good  appear- 
ance, and  that  comes  from  the  ideas  of  some  as  to 
what  sort  of  man  or  woman  is  the  best.  Before  I 
left  Seattle,  Aunt  Ann,  my  associates  gave  me  a 
big  dinner  at  the  club — a  sort  of  good-bye  affair  to 
drink  to  my  future,  you  know — and  some  of  the 
most  distinguished  men  in  the  state  were  there, 
men  prominent  in  the  business  and  political  world. 
And  that  night,  Aunt  Ann"  —  King  had  flushed 
slightly  and  his  voice  faltered — "that  night  a  well- 
meaning  man,  a  sort  of  society  leader,  in  his  toast 
to  me  plainly  referred  to  me  as  a  scion  of  the  old 
Southern  aristocracy,  and  he  did  it  in  just  such  a 
way  as  to  make  it  appear  to  those  who  knew  other- 
wise that  I  would  be  sailing  under  false  colors  if 
I  did  not  correct  the  impression.  He  had  made 
a  beautiful  talk  about  our  old  colonial  homes,  our 
slaves  in  livery,  our  beautiful  women,  who  invari- 
ably graced  the  courts  of  Europe,  and  concluded 
by  saying  that  it  was  no  wonder  I  had  succeeded 

9  121 


Ann   Boyd 

where  many  other  men  with  fewer  hereditary  influ- 
ences to  back  them  had  failed." 

"Ah,  you  were  in  a  fix!"  Ann  said.  "That  is,  it 
was  awkward  for  you,  who  I  know  to  be  almost  too 
sincere  for  your  own  good." 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  let  it  pass,  Aunt  Ann — I  simply 
couldn't  let  all  those  men  leave  that  table  under 
a  wrong  impression.  I  hardly  know  what  I  said 
when  I  replied,  but  it  seemed  to  be  the  right  thing, 
for  they  all  applauded  me.  I  told  him  I  did  not 
belong  to  what  was  generally  understood  to  be  the 
old  aristocracy  of  the  South,  but  to  what  I  con- 
sidered the  new.  I  told  them  about  our  log-cabin 
aristocracy,  Aunt  Ann,  here  in  these  blue  mountains, 
for  which  my  soul  was  famished.  I  told  them  of 
the  sturdy,  hard-working,  half-starved  mountaineers 
and  their  scratching,  with  dull  tools,  a  bare  exist- 
ence out  of  this  rocky  soil.  I  told  them  of  my  bleak 
and  barren  boyhood,  my  heart-burnings  at  home, 
when  my  mother  married  again,  the  nights  I'd 
spent  at  study  in  the  light  of  pine-knots  that  filled 
the  house  with  smoke.  Then  I  told  them  about  the 
grandest  woman  God  ever  brought  to  life.  I  told 
them  about  you,  Aunt  Ann.  I  gave  no  names, 
went  into  no  painful  particulars,  but  I  talked  about 
what  you  had  done  for  me,  and  how  you've  been 
persecuted  and  misunderstood,  till  I  could  hardly 
hold  back  the  tears  from  my  eyes." 

"Oh,  hush,  Luke,"  Ann  said,  huskily  —  "hush 
up!" 

"Well,  I  may  now,  but  I  couldn't  that  night," 
said  King.  "  I  got  started,  and  it  came  out  of  me 
like  a  flood.  I  said  things  about  you  that  night 

122 


Ann    Boyd 

that  I've  thought  for  years,  but  which  you  never 
would  let  me  say  to  you." 

"Hush,  Luke,  hush — you  are  a  good  boy,  but 
you  mustn't — "  Ann's  voice  broke,  and  she  placed 
her  hand  to  her  eyes. 

"There  was  a  celebrated  novelist  there,"  King 
went  on,  "and  after  dinner  he  came  over  to  me  and 
held  out  his  hand.  He  was  old  and  white-haired, 
and  his  face  was  full  of  tender,  poetic  emotion.  '  If 
you  ever  meet  your  benefactress  again,'  he  said, 
'tell  her  I'd  give  half  my  life  to  know  her.  If  I'd 
known  her  I  could  write  a  book  that  would  be  im- 
mortal.' " 

There  was  a  pause.  Ann  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
crush  out  some  obstruction  to  deliberate  utterance 
in  her  big,  throbbing  throat. 

"  If  he  knew  my  life  just  as  it  has  been,"  she  said, 
finally — "  if  he  knew  it  all — all  that  I've  been  through, 
all  I've  thought  through  it  all,  from  the  time  I  was 
an  innocent,  laughing  girl  till  now,  as  an  old  woman, 
I'm  fighting  a  battle  of  hate  with  every  living  soul 
within  miles  of  me — if  he  knew  all  that,  he  could 
write  a  book,  and  it  would  be  a  big  one.  But  it 
wouldn't  help  humanity,  Luke.  My  hate's  mine, 
and  the  devil's.  It's  not  for  folks  born  lucky  and 
happy.  Some  folks  seem  put  on  earth  for  love. 
I'm  put  here  for  hate  and  for  joy  over  the  mis- 
fortune of  my  enemies." 

"You  know  many  things,  Aunt  Ann,"  King  said, 
softly,  "  and  you  are  older  than  I  am,  but  you  can't 
see  the  end  of  it  all  as  clearly  as  I  do." 

"You  think  not,  my  boy?" 

"No,  Aunt  Ann;  I  have  learned  that  nothing 
123 


Ann    Boyd 

exists  on  earth  except  to  produce  ultimate  good. 
The  vilest  crime,  indirectly,  is  productive  of  good. 
I  confidently  expect  to  see  the  day  that  you  will 
simply  rise  one  step  higher  in  your  remarkable 
life  and  learn  to  love  your  enemies.  Then  you'll 
be  understood  by  them  all  as  I  understand  you,  for 
they  will  then  look  into  your  heart,  your  real  heart, 
as  I've  looked  into  it  ever  since  you  took  pity  on  the 
friendless,  barefoot  boy  that  I  was  and  lifted  me 
out  of  my  degradation  and  breathed  the  breath 
of  hope  into  my  despondent  body.  And  when  that 
day  comes — mark  it  as  my  prediction — you  will 
slay  the  ill-will  of  your  enemies  with  a  glance  from 
your  eye,  and  they  will  fall  conquered  at  your  feet." 

"Huh!"  Ann  muttered,  "you  say  that  because 
you  are  just  looking  at  the  surface  of  things.  You 
see,  I  know  a  lots  that  you  don't.  Things  have 
gone  on  here  and  are  still  going  on  that  nothing 
earthly  could  stop." 

"  That's  it,  Aunt  Ann,"  Luke  King  said,  seriously — 
"it  won't  be  anything  earthly.  It  will  be  heavenly, 
and  when  the  bolt  falls  you  will  acknowledge  I  am 
right.  Now,  I  must  go.  It  will  be  about  dark 
when  I  get  to  my  step-father's." 

Ann  walked  with  him  to  the  gate,  and  as  she 
closed  it  after  him  she  held  out  her  hand.  It  was 
quivering.  "You  are  a  good  boy,  Luke,"  she  said, 
"but  you  don't  know  one  hundredth  part  of  what 
they've  said  and  done  since  you  left.  I  never  wrote 
you." 

"  I  don't  care  what  they've  done  or  said  out  of 
their  shallow  heads  and  cramped  lives,"  King 
laughed — "they  won't  be  able  to  affect  your  greater 

124 


Ann    Boyd 

existence.  You'll  slay  it  all,  Aunt  Ann,  with  for- 
giveness— yes,  and  pity.  You'll  see  the  day  you'll 
pity  them  rather  than  hate  them." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Luke,"  Ann  said,  her  lips  set 
firmly,  and  she  turned  back  into  the  house.  Stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  she  watched  him  trudge  along 
the  road,  carrying  his  valise  easily  in  his  hand  and 
swinging  it  lightly  to  and  fro. 

"What  a  funny  idea!"  she  mused.  "Me  forgive 
Jane  Hemingway!  The  boy  talks  that  way  be- 
cause he's  young  and  full  of  dreams,  and  don't  know 
any  better.  If  he  was  going  through  what  I  am  he'd 
hate  the  whole  world  and  every  living  thing  in  it." 

She  saw  him  pause,  turn,  and  put  his  valise  down 
on  the  side  of  the  road.  He  was  coming  back,  and 
she  went  to  meet  him  at  the  gate.  He  came  up 
with  a  smile. 

"The  thought's  just  struck  me,"  he  said,  "that 
you'd  be  the  best  adviser  in  the  world  as  to  what  I 
ought  to  invest  my  ten  thousand  in.  You  never 
have  made  a  mistake  in  money  matters  that  I  ever 
heard  of,  Aunt  Ann;  but  maybe  you'd  rather  not 
talk  about  my  affairs." 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  she  said,  as  she  leaned  over 
the  gate.  "  I'll  bet  that  money  of  yours  will  worry 
me  some,  for  young  folks  these  days  have  no  cau- 
tion in  such  matters.  Ten  thousand  dollars — why, 
that  is  exactly  the  price — "  She  paused,  her  face 
full  of  sudden  excitement. 

"The  price  of  what,  Aunt  Ann?"  he  asked,  won- 
deringly. 

"Why,  the  price  of  the  Dickerson  farm.  It's 
up  for  sale.  Jerry  Dickerson  has  been  wanting  to 

125 


Ann   Boyd 

leave  here  for  the  last  three  years,  and  every  year 
he's  been  putting  a  lower  and  lower  price  on  his 
big  farm  and  comfortable  house  and  every  improve- 
ment. His  brother's  gone  in  the  wholesale  grocery 
business  in  Chattanooga,  and  he  wants  to  join 
him.  The  property  is  worth  double  the  money.  I 
wouldn't  like  to  advise  you,  Luke,  but  I'd  rather 
see  your  money  in  that  place  than  anything  else. 
It  would  be  a  guarantee  of  an  income  to  you  as 
long  as  you  lived." 

"I  know  the  place,  and  it's  a  beauty,"  King  said, 
"and  I'll  run  over  there  and  look  at  it  to-morrow, 
and  if  it's  still  to  be  had  I  may  rake  it  in.  Think 
of  me  owning  one  of  the  best  plantations  in  the  val- 
ley— me,  Aunt  Ann,  your  barefoot,  adopted  son." 

Ann's  head  was  hanging  low  as  she  walked  back 
to  the  cottage  door. 

"'Adopted  son,'"  she  repeated,  tenderly.  "As 
God  is  my  Judge,  I — I  believe  he's  the  only  creat- 
ure alive  on  this  broad  earth  that  I  love.  Yes,  I 
love  that  boy.  What  strange,  sweet  ideas  he  has 
picked  up!  Well,  I  hope  he'll  always  be  able  to 
keep  them.  I  had  plenty  of  them  away  back  at 
his  age.  My  unsullied  faith  in  mankind  was  the 
tool  that  dug  the  grave  of  my  happiness.  Poor, 
blind  boy!  he  may  be  on  the  same  road.  He  may 
see  the  day  that  all  he  believes  in  now  will  crumble 
into  bitter  powder  at  his  touch.  I  wonder  if  God 
can  really  be  a//-powerful.  It  seems  strange  that 
what  is  said  to  be  the  highest  good  in  this  life  is 
doing  exactly  what  He,  Himself,  has  failed  to  do — 
to  keep  His  own  creatures  from  suffering.  That 
really  is  odd." 

126 


XIV 

[UKE  KING  was  hot,  damp  with  per- 
spiration, and  covered  with  the  red 
dust  of  the  mountain  road  when  he 
reached  the  four-roomed  cabin  of  his 
step-father  among  the  stunted  pines 
and  gnarled  wild  cedars. 

Old  Mark  Bruce  sat  out  in  front  of  the  door.  He 
wore  no  shoes  nor  coat,  and  his  hickory  shirt  and 
trousers  had  been  patched  many  times.  His  gray 
hair  was  long,  sunburned,  and  dyed  with  the  soil, 
and  the  corrugated  skin  of  his  cheeks  and  neck  was 
covered  with  long  hairs.  As  his  step-son  came  into 
view  from  behind  the  pine-pole  pig-pen,  the  old 
man  uttered  a  grunt  of  surprise  that  brought  to 
the  doorway  two  young  women  in  unadorned  home- 
spun dresses,  and  a  tall,  lank  young  man  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves. It  was  growing  dark,  and  they  all  failed 
to  recognize  the  new-comer. 

"I  suppose  you  have  forgotten  me,"  King  said, 
as  he  put  his  valise  on  a  wash-bench  by  a  tub  of 
suds  and  a  piggin  of  lye-soap. 

"By  Jacks,  it's  Luke  King!'r  After  that  ejacula- 
tion of  the  old  man  he  and  the  others  stared  speech- 
lessly. 

"  Yes,  that's  who  I  am,"  continued  King.  "  How 
do  you  do,  Jake?"  (to  the  tall  young  man  in  the 

127 


Ann  Boyd 

doorway).  "We  might  as  well  shake  hands  for  the 
sake  of  old  times.  You  girls  have  grown  into 
women  since  I  left.  I've  stayed  away  a  long  time 
and  seen  a  lot  of  the  world,  but  I've  always  wanted 
to  get  back.  Where  is  mother?" 

Neither  of  the  girls  could  summon  up  the  cour- 
age to  answer,  and,  as  they  gave  him  their  stiff 
hands,  they  seemed  under  stress  of  great  embarrass- 
ment. 

"She's  poorly,"  said  the  old  man,  inhospitably 
keeping  his  seat.  "She's  had  a  hurtin'  in  'er  side 
from  usin'  that  thar  battlin 'stick  too  much  on  dirty 
clothes,  hoein'  corn  an'  one  thing  an'  another,  an'  a 
cold  settled  on  her  chest.  Mary,  go  tell  yore  ma 
her  son's  turned  up  at  last.  Huh,  all  of  us,  except 
her,  thought  you  was  dead  an'  under  ground!  She's 
always  contended  you  was  alive  an'  had  a  job  somers 
that  was  pay  in'  enough  to  feed  an'  clothe  you. 
How's  times  been  a-servin'  you?" 

"Pretty  well."  King  removed  his  valise  from 
the  bench  and  took  its  place  wearily. 

"Is  that  so?  Things  is  worse  than  ever  here. 
Whar  have  you  been  hangin'  out?" 

"Seattle  was  the  last  place,"  King  answered. 
"I've  worked  in  several  towns  since  I  left  here." 

"Huh,  about  as  I  expected!  An'  I  reckon  you 
hain't  got  much  to  show  fer  it  except  what  you  got 
on  yore  back  an'  in  that  carpet-bag." 

"That's  about  all." 

"What  you  been  followin'?" 

"  Doing  newspaper  work,"  replied  the  young  man, 
coloring. 

"  I  'lowed  you  might  keep  at  that.  You  used  to 
128 


Ann    Boyd 

git  a  dollar  a  day  at  Canton,  I  remember.  Mar- 
ried?" 

"No." 

"Hain't  able  to  support  a  woman,  I  reckon. 
Well,  you've  showed  a  great  lot  o'  good  sense  thar; 
a  feller  of  the  wishy-washy,  drift-about  sort,  like 
you,  can  sorter  manage  to  shift  fer  hisself  ef  he 
hain't  hampered  by  a  pack  o'  children  an'  a  sick 
woman." 

At  this  juncture  Mary  returned.  She  flushed  as 
she  caught  King's  expectant  glance.  She  spoke  to 
her  father. 

"She  said  tell  'im  to  come  in  thar." 

Luke  went  into  the  front  room  and  turned  thence 
into  a  small  chamber  adjoining.  It  was  windowless 
and  dark,  the  only  light  filtering  indirectly  through 
the  front  room.  On  a  low,  narrow  bed,  beneath  a 
ladder  leading  to  a  trap-door  above,  lay  a  woman. 

"Here  I  am,  Luke,"  she  cried  out,  warningly. 
"Don't  stumble  over  that  pan  o'  water.  I've  been 
takin'  a  hot  mustard  foot-bath  to  try  and  get  my 
blood  warm.  I  have  chilly  spells  every  day  about 
this  time.  La  me!  How  you  take  me  by  surprise! 
I've  prayed  for  little  else  in  many  a  year,  an'  was 
just  about  to  give  up.  I  took  a  little  hope  from 
some'n'  old  Ann  Boyd  said  one  day  about  you  bein' 
well  an'  employed  somers  out  West,  but  then  I  met 
Jane  Hemingway,  an'  she  give  me  the  blues.  She 
'lowed  that  old  Ann  just  pretended  you  was  doin' 
well  to  convince  folks  she'd  made  no  mistake  in 
sendin'  you  to  school.  But,  thank  God,  here  you 
are  alive,  anyway." 

"Yes,  I'm  as  sound  as  a  new  dollar,  mother." 
129 


Ann    Boyd 

His  foot  came  in  contact  with  a  three-legged  stool 
in  the  darkness,  and  he  recognized  it  as  an  old 
friend  and  drew  it  to  the  head  of  her  bed  and  sat 
down.  He  took  one  of  her  hard,  thin  hands  and 
bent  over  her.  Should  he  kiss  her?  She  had  not 
taught  him  to  do  so  as  a  child,  and  he  had  never 
done  it  later  in  his  youth,  not  even  when  he  had  left 
home,  but  he  had  been  out  in  the  world  and  grown 
wiser.  He  had  seen  other  men  kiss  their  mothers, 
and  his  heart  had  ached.  With  his  hand  on  her 
hard,  withered  cheek  he  turned  her  face  towards 
him  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers.  She  was  much 
surprised,  and  drew  herself  from  him  instinctively, 
and  wiped  her  mouth  with  a  corner  of  the  coverlet, 
but  he  knew  she  was  pleased. 

"Why,  Luke!"  she  said,  quickly,  "what  on  earth 
do  you  mean?  Have  you  gone  plumb  crazy?" 

"I  wanted  to  kiss  you,  that's  all,"  he  said,  awk- 
wardly. They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment,  then 
she  spoke,  tremblingly:  "You  always  was  womanish 
and  tender-like;  it  don't  harm  anybody,  though; 
none  o'  the  rest  in  this  family  are  that  way.  But, 
my  stars!  I  can't  tell  a  bit  how  you  look  in  this 
pitch-dark.  Mary!  oh,  Mary!" 

"What  you  want,  ma?"  The  nearness  of  the 
speaker  in  the  adjoining  room  betrayed  the  fact 
that  she  had  been  listening. 

"I  can't  see  my  hand  before  me,"  answered 
the  old  woman.  "  I  wish  you'd  fetch  a  light  here. 
You'll  find  a  stub  of  a  candle  in  the  clock  under  the 
turpentine-bottle.  I  hid  it  thar  so  as  to  have  some'n' 
to  read  the  Book  with  Sunday  night  if  any  preacher 
happened  to  drop  in  to  hold  family  worship." 

130 


Ann    Boyd 

The  girl  lighted  the  bit  of  tallow-dip  and  braced 
it  upright  in  a  cracked  teacup  with  some  bits  of 
stone.  She  brought  it  in,  placed  it  on  a  dry-goods 
box  filled  with  cotton-seed  and  ears  of  corn,  and 
shambled  out.  King's  heart  sank  as  he  looked 
around  him  in  the  dim  light.  The  room  was  only 
a  lean-to  shed  walled  with  slabs  driven  into  the 
ground  and  floored  with  puncheons.  The  bedstead 
was  a  crude,  wooden  frame  supported  by  perpen- 
dicular saplings  fastened  to  floor  and  rafters.  The 
irregular  cracks  in  the  wall  were  filled  with  mud, 
rags,  and  newspapers.  Bunches  of  dried  herbs, 
roots,  and  red  peppers  hung  above  his  head,  and 
piles  of  clothing,  earth-dyed  and  worn  to  shreds, 
and  agricultural  implements  lay  about  indiscrim- 
inately. Disturbed  by  the  light,  a  hen  flew  from 
her  nest  behind  a  dismantled  cloth-loom,  and  with 
a  loud  cackling  ran  out  at  the  door.  There  was  a 
square  cat-hole  in  the  wall,  and  through  it  a  lank, 
half -starved  cat  crawled  and  came  purring  and  rub- 
bing against  the  young  man's  ankle. 

The  old  woman  shaded  her  eyes  and  gazed  at  him 
eagerly.  "You  hain't  altered  so  overly  much," 
she  observed,  "  'cept  your  skin  looks  mighty  fair 
fer  a  man,  and  yore  hands  feel  soft." 

Then  she  lowered  her  voice  into  a  cautious  whis- 
per, and  glanced  furtively  towards  the  door.  "  You 
favor  your  father — I  don't  mean  Mark,  but  your 
own  daddy.  You  are  as  like  him  as  can  be.  He 
helt  his  head  that  away,  an'  had  yore  habit  o'  being 
gentle  with  women-folks.  You've  got  his  high  tem- 
per, too.  La  me!  that  last  night  you  was  at  home, 
an'  Mark  cussed  you  an'  kicked  yore  writin'-paper 


Ann    Boyd 

in  the  fire,  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink.  I  thought  you'd 
gone  off  to  borrow  a  gun.  It  was  almost  a  relief  to 
know  you'd  left,  kase  I  seed  you  an'  him  couldn't 
git  along.  Your  father  was  a  different  sort  of  a 
man,  Luke,  and  sometimes  I  miss  'im  sharp.  He 
loved  books  an'  study  like  you  do.  He  had  good 
blood  in  'im;  his  father  was  a  teacher  an'  circuit- 
rider.  I  don't  know  why  I  married  Mark,  unless 
it  was  kase  I  was  afraid  of  bein'  sent  to  the  poor- 
farm,  but,  la  me!  this  is  about  as  bad." 

There  was  a  low  whimper  in  her  voice,  and  the 
lines  about  her  mouth  had  tightened.  King's  breast 
heaved,  and  he  suddenly  put  out  his  hand  and  be- 
gan to  stroke  her  thin,  gray  hair.  A  strange,  rest- 
ful feeling  stole  over  him.  The  spell  was  on  her, 
too;  she  closed  her  eyes  and  a  satisfied  smile  lighted 
her  wan  face.  Then  her  lips  began  to  quiver,  and 
she  quickly  turned  her  face  from  him. 

"I'm  a  simpleton,"  she  sobbed,  "but  I  can't  help 
it.  Nobody  hain't  petted  me  nor  tuck  on  over  me 
a  bit  since  your  pa  died.  I  never  treated  you  right, 
neither,  Luke.  I  ort  never  to  'a'  let  Mark  run  over 
you  like  he  did." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  King  said.  "  He  and  I  have 
already  made  friends;  but  you  must  not  lie  in  this 
dingy  hole;  you  need  medicine,  and  good,  warm 
food." 

"Oh,  I'm  goin'  to  git  up,"  she  answered,  lightly. 
"I'm  not  sick,  Luke.  I  jest  laid  down  awhile  to 
rest.  I  have  to  do  this  nearly  every  evening.  I 
must  git  the  house  straight.  Mary  an'  Jane  hain't 
no  hands  at  house-work  'thout  I  stand  right  over 
'em,  an'  Jake  an'  his  pa  is  continually  a-fussing.  I 

132 


Ann   Boyd 

feel  stronger  already.  If  you'll  go  in  t'other  room 
I'll  rise.  They'll  never  fix  you  nothin'  to  eat  nor 
nowhar  to  sleep.  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  lie  with 
Jake,  like  you  used  to,  till  I  can  fix  better.  Things 
has  been  in  an  awful  mess  since  I  got  so  porely." 

He  went  into  the  front  room.  The  old  man  had 
brought  his  hand-bag  in.  He  had  placed  it  in  a 
chair  and  opened  it  and  was  coolly  inspecting  the 
contents  in  the  firelight.  Jake  and  the  two  girls 
stood  looking  on.  King  stared  at  the  old  man,  but 
the  latter  did  not  seem  at  all  abashed. 

"Huh,"  he  said,  "you  seem  to  be  about  as  well 
stocked  with  little  tricks  as  a  notion  peddler — five 
or  six  pair  o'  striped  socks  and  no  end  o'  collars; 
them  things  folded  under  the  shirts  looks  like  an- 
other suit  o'  clothes.  I  reckon  you  have  had  a 
good  job  if  you  carry  two  outfits  around.  Though 
I  have  heard  of  printin'-men  that  went  off  owin' 
accounts  here  an'  yan." 

"I  paid  what  I  owed  before  I  left,"  King  said, 
with  an  effort  at  lightness  as  he  closed  the  valise 
and  put  it  into  a  corner. 

In  a  few  minutes  his  mother  came  in.  She  blew 
out  the  candle,  and  as  she  crossed  to  the  mantel- 
piece she  carefully  extinguished  the  smoking  wick 
with  her  fingers.  The  change  in  her  was  more 
noticeable  to  her  son  than  it  had  been  when  she 
was  reclining.  She  looked  very  frail  in  her  faded 
black  cotton  gown.  Somehow,  bent  as  she  was,  she 
seemed  shorter  than  of  old,  more  cowed  and  hope- 
less. Her  shoes  were  worn  through,  and  her  bare 
feet  showed  through  the  holes. 

"Mary,"  she  asked, "  have  you  put  on  the  supper?" 


Ann   Boyd 

"  Yes'm,  but  it  hain't  tuck  up  yet."  The  girl  went 
into  the  next  room,  which  was  used  at  once  for 
cooking  and  dining,  and  her  mother  followed  her. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  old  woman  came  to  the  door. 

"Walk  out,  all  of  you,"  she  said,  wearily.  "Luke, 
it  seems  funny  to  make  company  of  you,  but  some- 
how I  can't  treat  you  like  the  rest.  You'll  have  to 
make  out  with  what  is  set  before  you,  though  hog- 
meat  is  mighty  scarce  this  year.  Just  at  fattenin'- 
time  our  pigs  took  the  cholera  an'  six  laid  down  in 
the  swamp  in  one  day  and  died.  Pork  is  fetchin' 
fifteen  cents  a  pound  in  town,  and  mighty  few  will 
sell  on  a  credit." 


XV 

FTER  supper  King  left  his  mother  and 
step-sisters  removing  the  dishes  from 
the  table  and  went  out.  He  was 
sickened  to  the  depths  of  his  sensitive 
soul  by  the  sordid  meal  he  had  just 
seen  the  family  partake  of  with  evident  relish,  as  if 
it  were  of  unusual  occurrence.  And  he  was  angry 
with  himself,  too,  for  feeling  so,  when  such  a  life 
had  been  their  lot  so  long. 

He  crossed  the  little  brook  that  ran  on  a  bed  of 
brown  stone  behind  the  cabin,  and  leaned  against 
the  rail-fence  which  surrounded  the  pine-pole  corn- 
crib.  He  could  easily  leave  them  in  their  squalor 
and  ignorance  and  return  to  the  great,  intellectual 
world — the  world  which  read  his  editorials  and  fol- 
lowed his  precepts,  the  key-note  of  which  had  al- 
ways been  the  love  of  man  for  man  as  the  greatest 
force  in  the  universe — but,  after  all,  would  that  not 
stamp  him  with  the  brand  he  most  despised — hy- 
pocrisy? A  pretty  preacher,  he,  of  such  fine-spun 
theories,  while  his  own  mother  and  her  step-children 
were  burrowing  in  the  soil  like  eyeless  animals,  and 
he  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land  along  with  the  wealth 
and  power  of  the  country! 

The  cabin  door  shone  out,  a  square  of  red  light 
against  the  blackness  of  the  hill  and  the  silent, 


Ann   Boyd 

serried  pines  beyond.  He  heard  Jake  whistling  a 
tune  he  had  whistled  long  ago,  when  they  had 
worked  Mark  Bruce 's  crop  side  by  side,  and  the 
spasmodic  creaking  of  the  puncheons  as  the  family 
moved  about  within. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway.  It  was  his 
mother,  and  she  was  coming  to  search  for  him. 

"Here  I  am,  mother!"  he  cried  out,  gently,  as 
she  advanced  through  the  darkness;  "look  out  and 
don't  get  your  feet  wet." 

She  chuckled  childishly  as  she  stepped  across  the 
brook  on  the  largest  stones.  When  she  reached  him 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  laughed:  "La  me, 
boy,  a  little  wet  won't  hurt  me — I'm  used  to  a  good 
soakin'  mighty  nigh  every  drenchin'  rain.  I  slept 
with  a  stream  of  it  tricklin'  through  the  roof  on  my 
back  one  night,  an'  I've  milched  the  cows  in  that 
thar  lot  when  the  mire  was  shoe-mouth  deep  in 
January.  I  'lowed  I'd  find  you  out  here.  You 
used  to  be  a  mighty  hand  to  sneak  off  to  yoreself 
to  study,  and  you  are  still  that  away.  But  you  are 
different  in  some  things,  too.  You  don't  talk  our 
way  exactly,  an'  I  reckon  that's  what  aggravates 
Mark.  He  was  goin'  on  jest  now  about  yore  stuck- 
up  way  o'  eatin  with  yore  pocket-handkerchief 
spread  out  in  yore  lap." 

King  looked  past  her  at  the  full  moon  rising  above 
the  trees  on  the  mountain-top. 

"Mother,"  said  he,  abruptly,  and  he  put  his  arm 
impulsively  around  her  neck,  and  his  eyes  filled — • 
"mother,  I  can't  stay  here  but  a  few  days.  I  have 
work  to  do  in  Atlanta.  Your  health  is  bad,  and 
you  are  not  comfortable ;  the  others  are  strong  and 

136 


Ann    Boyd 

can  stand  it,  but  you  can't.  Come  down  there  with 
me  for  a  while,  anyway.  I'll  put  you  under  a 
doctor  and  bring  back  your  health." 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  she  slapped  him  playfully  on  the  breast 
and  drew  away  from  him.  "How  foolish  you  talk 
fer  a  grown-up  man!"  she  laughed;  "why,  you 
know  I  can't  leave  Mark  and  the  children.  He'd 
go  stark  crazy  'thout  me  around  to  grumble  at,  an' 
then  the  rest  ud  be  without  my  advice  an'  counsel. 
La  me,  what  makes  you  think  I  ain't  comfortable? 
This  cabin  is  a  sight  better  'n  the  last  one  we  had, 
an'  drier  an'  a  heap  warmer  inside  when  fire-wood 
kin  be  got.  Hard  times  like  these  now  is  likely  to 
come  at  any  time  an'  anywhar.  It  strikes  rich  an' 
pore  alike.  Thar's  Dickerson  offerin'  that  fine  old 
farm,  with  all  the  improvements,  fer  a  mere  song  to 
raise  money  to  go  into  business  whar  he  kin  hope  to 
pay  out  o'  debt.  They  say  now  that  the  place — lock, 
stock,  and  barrel — kin  be  had  fer  ten  thousand.  Why, 
when  you  was  a  boy  he  would  have  refused  twenty. 
Now,  ef  we-all  had  it  instead  o'  him,  Mark  an'  Jake 
could  make  it  pay  like  rips,  fer  they  are  hard  workers. " 

"You  think  they  could,  mother?"  His  heart 
bounded  suddenly,  and  he  stood  staring  thought- 
fully into  her  eyes. 

"Pay? — of  course  they  could.  Fellers  that  could 
keep  a  roof  over  a  family's  head  on  what  they've 
had  to  back  'em  could  get  rich  on  a  place  like  that. 
But,  la  me,  what's  the  use  o'  pore  folks  thinkin' 
about  the  property  o'  the  rich  an'  lucky?  It's  like 
dreamin'  you  are  a  queen  at  night  an'  wakin'  up 
in  hunger  an'  rags." 

137 


Ann    Boyd 

"I  remember  the  farm  and  the  old  house  very 
well,"  King  remarked,  reflectively,  the  queer  light 
still  in  his  earnest  eyes. 

"The  old  one!  Huh,  Dickerson  got  on  a  splurge 
the  year  you  left,  an'  built  a  grand  new  one  with 
some  money  from  his  wife's  estate.  He  turned  the 
old  one  into  a  big  barn  an'  stable  an'  gin.  You 
must  see  the  new  house  'fore  you  go  away,  Luke. 
It's  jest  splendid,  with  green  blinds  to  the  winders, 
a  fancy  spring -house  with  a  tin  rooster  on  top 
that  p'ints  the  way  the  wind  blows,  and  on  high 
stilts  like  thar's  a  big  tank  and  a  windmill  to  keep 
the  house  supplied  with  water.  I  hain't  never  been 
in  it,  but  they  say  they've  got  wash-tubs  long 
enough  to  lie  down  in  handy  to  every  sleepin'-room, 
and  no  end  of  fancy  contraptions." 

"We'd  better  go  in,  mother,". >ie  said,  abruptly. 
"You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold  out  here  in  the 
dew." 

She  laughed  as  they  walked  back  to  the  cabin, 
side  by  side.  A  thick  smoke  and  its  unpleasant  odor 
met  them  at  the  door. 

"It's  Mark  burnin'  rags  inside  to  oust  the  mos- 
quitoes so  he  kin  sleep,"  she  explained.  "They  are 
wuss  this  year  than  I  ever  seed  'em.  Seems  like  the 
general  starvation  has  tackled  them,  too,  fer  they 
look  like  they  will  eat  a  body  up  whether  or  no. 
Jake  an'  the  gals  grease  their  faces  with  lamp-oil 
when  they  have  any,  but  I  jest  kiver  up  my  head 
with  a  rag  an'  never  know  they  are  about.  I 
reckon  we'd  better  go  to  bed.  Jake  has  fixed  him 
a  pallet  on  the  fodder  in  the  loft,  so  you  kin  lie  by 
yoreself.  He's  been  jowerin'  at  his  pa  ever  since 

138 


Ann    Boyd 

supper  about  treatin'  you  so  bad.  I  thought  once 
they'd  come  to  blows." 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Jake  threw  a 
bag  of  shelled  corn  on  the  back  of  his  mare,  and, 
mounting  upon  it  as  if  it  were  a  saddle,  he  started 
off  down  the  valley  to  the  mill,  and  his  father  shoul- 
dered an  axe  and  went  up  on  the  hill  to  cut  wood. 

"Whar  you  going?"  Mrs.  Bruce  asked,  as  she  fol- 
lowed Luke  to  the  door. 

His  eyes  fell  to  the  ground.  "  I  thought,"  he  an- 
swered, "that  I'd  walk  over  to  the  Dickerson  farm 
and  take  a  look  at  the  improvements.  I  used  to 
hunt  over  that  land." 

"Well,  whatever  you  do,  be  sure  you  get  back 
to  dinner,"  she  said.  "Me  an'  Jane  took  a  torch 
last  night  after  you  went  to  bed  an'  blinded  a  hen 
on  the  roost  and  pulled  her  down;  I'm  goin'  to  make 
you  an'  old-time  chicken-pie  like  you  used  to  love 
on  Christmas." 

Half  a  mile  up  the  road,  which  ran  along  the 
side  of  the  hill  from  which  the  slow,  reverberating 
clap,  clap  of  Mark  Bruce 's  axe  came  on  the  still  air, 
King  came  into  view  of  the  rich,  level  lands  of  the 
Dickerson  plantation.  He  stood  in  the  shade  of 
a  tall  poplar  and  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  lush 
green  meadows,  the  well-tilled  fields  of  corn,  cotton, 
and  sorghum,  and  the  large,  two-storied  house,  with 
its  dormer-windows,  tall,  fluted  columns,  and  broad 
verandas — at  the  well-arranged  out-houses,  barns, 
and  stables,  and  the  white  -  gravelled  drives  and 
walks  from  the  house  to  the  main  road.  Then  he 
turned  and  looked  back  at  the  cabin — the  home  of 
his  nearest  kin. 


Ann   Boyd 

The  house  was  hardly  discernible  in  the  gray 
morning  mist  that  lingered  over  the  little  vale  in 
which  it  stood.  He  saw  Jake,  far  away,  riding  along, 
in  and  out,  among  the  sassafras  and  sumach  bushes 
that  bordered  a  worn-out  wheat -field,  his  long  legs 
dangling  at  the  sides  of  the  mare.  There  was  a 
bent,  blurred  figure  at  the  wood-pile  in  the  yard; 
it  was  his  mother  or  one  of  the  girls. 

"Poor  souls!"  he  exclaimed;  "they  have  been  in 
a  dreary  tread-mill  all  their  lives,  and  have  never 
known  the  joy  of  one  gratified  ambition.  If  only  I 
could  conquer  my  own  selfish  desires,  I  could  lay 
before  them  that  which  they  never  dreamed  of  pos- 
sessing— a  glorious  taste  of  genuine  happiness.  It 
would  take  my  last  dollar  of  ready  money,  but  I'd 
still  have  my  interest  in  the  new  paper  and  this 
brain  and  will  of  mine.  Aunt  Ann  would  never  see 
it  my  way,  and  she  might  throw  me  over  for  doing 
it,  but  why  shouldn't  I?  Why  shouldn't  I  do  it 
when  my  very  soul  cries  out  for  it?  Why  have  I 
been  preaching  this  thing  all  this  time  and  making 
converts  right  and  left  if  I  am  to  draw  back  the  first 
time  a  real  opportunity  confronts  me?  It  may 
be  to  test  my  mettle.  Yes,  that's  what  it  is.  I've 
got  to  do  one  or  the  other — keep  the  money — or 
give  it  to  them." 


XVI 

JING  turned  towards  the  Dickerson  place 
and  walked  on,  a  great  weight  of  in- 
decision on  him.  He  had  always  held 
up  Ann  Boyd  as  his  highest  human 
example.  She  would  laugh  the  idea 
to  scorn — the  idea  of  putting  old  Mark  Bruce  and 
his  "lay-out"  into  such  a  home  and  circumstances; 
and  yet,  estimable  as  she  was  in  many  things,  still 
she  was  not  a  free  woman.  She  showed  that  by  her 
slavery  to  the  deepest  hatred  that  ever  burned  in 
a  human  breast.  No,  it  was  plain  to  the  young 
philosopher  that  in  some  things,  at  least,  she  was 
no  guide  for  him.  Rather  might  it  not  eventually 
result  in  the  hate  -  hardened  woman's  learning 
brighter  walks  of  life  from  him,  young  as  he  was? 
And  yet,  he  told  himself,  the  money  was  his,  not 
theirs,  and  few  really  succeeded  in  life  who  gave 
away  their  substance. 

The  road  led  him  past  Jane  Hemingway's  cot- 
tage, and  at  the  fence,  in  the  barn-yard,  he  saw  Vir- 
ginia. He  saw  her,  bareheaded,  with  her  wonderful 
hair  and  exquisite  profile  and  curve  of  neck,  shoul- 
der, and  breast,  before  she  was  aware  of  his  ap- 
proach, and  the  view  brought  him  to  a  stand  be- 
hind some  bushes  which  quite  hid  him  from  her 
view. 

141 


Ann   Boyd 

"It  is  Virginia — it  must  be — yes,  it  is  Virginia!" 
he  said,  ecstatically.  "She  has  become  what  I 
knew  she  would  become,  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
world;  she  is  exactly  as  I  have  fancied  her  all 
these  years — proud,  erect — and  her  eyes,  oh!  I 
must  look  into  her  eyes  again!  Ah,  now  I  know 
what  brought  me  home!  Now  I  know  why  I  was 
not  content  away.  Yes,  this  was  the  cause — Vir- 
ginia— my  little  friend  and  pupil — Virginia!" 

She  had  turned  her  head,  and  with  the  startled 
look  of  a  wild  young  fawn  on  the  point  of  running 
away,  she  stood  staring  at  him. 

"Have  you  entirely  forgotten  me,  Virginia?"  he 
asked,  advancing  almost  with  instinctive  caution 
towards  her. 

"Oh  no,  now  I  know  you,"  she  said,  with,  he 
thought,  quite  the  girlish  smile  he  had  taken  with 
him  in  his  roaming,  and  she  leaned  over  the  fence 
and  gave  him  her  hand.  He  felt  it  pulsing  warmly 
in  his,  and  a  storm  of  feeling — the  accumulation  of 
years — rushed  over  him  as  he  looked  into  the  eyes 
he  had  never  forgotten,  and  marvelled  over  their 
wonderful  lights  and  shadows.  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  steady  his  voice  when  he  next  spoke. 

"It  has  been  several  years  since  I  saw  you,"  he 
said,  quite  aimlessly.  "  In  fact,  you  were  a  little 
girl  then,  Virginia,  and  now  you  are  a  woman,  a 
full-grown  woman — just  think  of  that!  But  why 
are  you  looking  at  me  so  steadily  from  head  to 
foot?" 

"I — I  can  hardly  realize  that  it  really  is  you," 
Virginia  said.  "You  see,  Luke — Mr.  King,  I  mean 
— I  thought  you  were — really,  I  thought  you  were 

142 


Ann    Boyd 

dead.  My  mother  has  said  it  many  times.  She 
quite  believed  it,  for  some  reason  or  other." 

"She  wanted  to  believe  it,  Virginia,  with  all  re- 
spect to  your  mother.  She  hates  Aunt  Ann — Mrs. 
Boyd,  you  know — and  it  seems  she  almost  hoped 
I'd  never  amount  to  anything,  since  it  was  Mrs. 
Boyd's  means  that  gave  me  my  education." 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  it  must  have  been,"  ad- 
mitted the  girl,  "and  it  seems  strange  for  you  to  be 
here  when  I  have  thought  I'd  perhaps  never  see 
you  again." 

"So  you  really  thought  I  was  done  for?"  he  said, 
trying  to  assume  a  calmness  he  was  far  from  feel- 
ing under  the  titillating  spell  her  beauty  and  sweet, 
musical  voice  had  cast  over  him. 

"  Yes,  mother  often  declared  it  was  so,  and  then — " 
She  broke  off,  her  color  rising  slightly. 

"  And,  then,  Virginia —  ?"  he  reminded  her,  eagerly. 

She  looked  him  frankly  in  the  eyes;  it  was  the 
old,  fearless,  childlike  glance  that  had  told  him 
long  ago  of  her  strong,  inherent  nobility  of  char- 
acter. 

"Well,  I  really  thought  if  you  had  been  alive 
you'd  have  come  back  to  your  mother.  You  would 
have  written,  anyway.  She's  been  in  a  pitiful  con- 
dition, Mr.  King." 

"I  know  it  now,  Virginia,"  he  said,  his  cheeks 
hot  with  shame.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  never  under- 
stand how  a  sane  man  could  have  acted  as  I  have, 
but  I  went  away  furious  with  her  and  her  husband, 
and  I  never  allowed  my  mind  to  dwell  in  tenderness 
on  her." 

"That  was  no  excuse,"  the  girl  said,  still  firmly, 

M3 


Ann    Boyd 

though  her  eyes  were  averted.  "She  had  a  right 
to  marry  again,  and,  if  you  and  her  husband  couldn't 
get  along  together,  that  did  not  release  you  from 
your  duty  to  see  that  she  was  given  ordinary  com- 
fort. I've  seen  her  walk  by  here  and  stop  to  rest, 
when  it  looked  like  she  could  hardly  drag  one  foot 
after  another.  The  thought  came  to  me  once  that 
she  was  starving  to  give  what  she  had  to  eat  to  the 
others." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  about  it,"  he  faltered,  the 
flames  of  his  shame  mounting  high  in  his  face — "  I 
stayed  there  last  night.  I  saw  enough  to  drag  my 
soul  out  of  my  body.  Don't  form  hasty  judgment 
yet,  Virginia.  You  shall  see  that  I'll  do  my  duty 
now.  I'll  work  my  hands  to  the  bone." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  talk  that  way,"  the 
girl  answered.  "  It  would  make  her  so  happy  to 
have  help  from  you." 

"Your  ideas  of  filial  duty  were  always  beautiful, 
Virginia,"  he  said,  his  admiring  eyes  feasting  on  her 
face.  "  I  remember  once — I  shall  never  forget  it — 
it  was  the  day  you  let  me  wade  across  the  creek 
with  you  in  my  arms.  You  said  you  were  too  big 
to  be  carried,  but  you  were  as  light  as  a  feather. 
I  could  have  carried  you  that  way  all  day  and  never 
been  tired.  It  was  then  that  you  told  me  in  all 
sincerity  that  you  would  really  die  for  your  mother's 
sake.  It  seemed  a  strangely  unselfish  thing  for  a 
little  girl  to  say,  but  I  believe  now  that  you'd  do  it." 

"Yes,  in  my  eyes  it  is  the  first,  almost  the  whole 
of  one's  duty  in  life,"  Virginia  replied.  "I  hardly 
have  a  moment's  happiness  now,  owing  to  my  moth- 
er's failing  health." 

144 


Ann    Boyd 

"Yes,  I  was  sorry  to  hear  she  was  afflicted,"  said 
King.  "She's  up  and  about,  though,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  but  she  is  suffering  more  than  mere  bodily 
pain.  She  has  her  trouble  on  her  mind  night  and 
day.  She's  afraid  to  die,  Luke.  That's  queer  to 
me.  Even  at  my  age  I'd  not  be  afraid,  and  she  is 
old,  and  really  ought  not  to  care.  I'd  think  she 
would  have  had  enough  of  life,  such  as  it  has  been 
from  the  beginning  till  now,  full  of  strife,  anger,  and 
envy.  I  hear  her  calling  me  now,  and  I  must  go  in. 
Come  see  her,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  very  soon,"  King  said,  as  she  turned  away. 
He  stood  at  the  fence  and  watched  her  as  she  moved 
gracefully  over  the  grass  to  the  gate  near  the  cot- 
tage. At  the  door  she  turned  and  smiled  upon 
him,  and  then  was  gone. 

"Yes,  I  now  know  why  I  came  back,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  Virginia — little  Virginia — that  brought  me. 
Oh,  God,  isn't  she  beautiful — isn't  she  strong  of 
character  and  noble?  Away  back  there  when  she 
wore  short  dresses  she  believed  in  me.  Once"  (he 
caught  his  breath)  "  I  seemed  to  see  the  dawn  of 
love  in  her  eyes,  but  it  has  died  away.  She  has  out- 
grown it.  She  thought  me  dead;  she  didn't  want 
to  think  me  alive  and  capable  of  neglecting  my 
mother.  Well,  she  shall  see.  She,  too,  looks  on 
me  as  an  idle  drift-about;  in  due  time  she  shall 
know  I  am  more  serious  than  that.  But  I  must  go 
slowly;  if  I  am  too  impulsive  I  may  spoil  all  my 
chances,  and,  Luke  King,  if  that  woman  does  not 
become  your  wife  you  will  be  a  failure — a  dead 
failure  at  everything  to  which  you  lay  your  hands, 
for  you'd  never  be  able  to  put  your  heart  into  any- 


Ann    Boyd 

thing  again — you  couldn't,  for  it's  hers  for  all  time 
and  eternity." 

It  was  dusk  when  he  returned  to  his  mother's 
cabin.  Jake  sat  on  his  warm  bag  of  meal  just  in- 
side the  door.  Old  Mark  had  taken  off  his  shoes, 
and  sat  under  a  persimmon-tree  "cooling  off"  and 
yelling  impatiently  at  his  wife  to  "hurry  up  sup- 
per." 

When  she  heard  Luke  had  returned,  she  came  to 
the  door  where  he  sat  talking  to  Jake.  "We  didn't 
know  what  had  become  of  you,"  she  said,  as  she 
emerged  from  the  cabin,  bending  her  head  to  pass 
through  the  low  doorway. 

"I  got  interested  in  looking  over  the  Dickerson 
farm,"  he  replied,  "and  before  I  realized  it  the  sun 
was  almost  down." 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter;  I  saved  you  a  piece  of  pie; 
I'm  just  warming  it  over  now.  I'll  bet  you  didn't 
get  a  bite  o'  dinner." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  The  fact  is,  Dickerson  remembered 
me,  and  made  me  go  to  dinner  with  him;  but  I'm 
ready  to  eat  again." 

As  they  were  rising  from  the  table  a  few  minutes 
later,  King  said,  in  a  rather  constrained  tone,  "  I've 
got  something  to  say  to  you  all,  and  I  may  as  well 
do  it  now." 

With  much  clatter  they  dragged  their  chairs  after 
him  to  the  front  room  and  sat  down  with  awkward 
ceremony — the  sort  of  dignified  quiet  that  usually 
governed  them  during  the  visit  of  some  strolling 
preacher  or  benighted  peddler.  They  stared  with 
ever-increasing  wonder  as  he  placed  his  own  chair  in 
front  of  them.  Old  Mark  seemed  embarrassed  by 

146 


Ann    Boyd 

the  formality  of  the  proceedings,  and  endeavored  to 
relieve  himself  by  assuming  indifference.  He  coughed 
conspicuously  and  hitched  his  chair  back  till  it  leaned 
against  the  door- jamb. 

There  was  a  queer,  boyish  tremor  in  Luke  King's 
voice  when  he  began  to  speak,  and  it  vibrated  there 
till  he  had  finished. 

"Since  I  went  away  from  you,"  he  began,  his 
eyes  on  the  floor,  "  I  have  studied  hard  and  closely 
applied  myself  to  a  profession,  and,  though  I've 
wandered  about  a  good  deal,  I've  made  it  pay 
pretty  well.  I'm  not  rich,  now,  but  I'm  worth 
more  than  you  think  I  am.  In  big  cities  the  sort 
of  talent  I  happen  to  have  brings  a  sort  of  mar- 
ket-price, and  I  have  profited  by  my  calling.  You 
have  never  had  any  luck,  and  you  have  worked  hard 
and  deserve  more  than  has  fallen  to  your  lot.  You'd 
never  be  able  to  make  anything  on  this  poor  land, 
even  if  you  could  buy  your  supplies  as  low  as  those 
who  pay  cash,  but  you  have  not  had  the  ready 
money  at  any  time,  and  the  merchants  have  swindled 
you  on  every  deal  you've  made  with  them.  The 
Dickerson  plantation  is  the  sort  of  place  you  really 
need.  It  is  worth  double  the  price  he  asked  for 
it.  I  happened  to  have  the  money  to  spare,  and  I 
bought  it  to-day  while  I  was  over  there." 

There  was  a  profound  silence  in  the  room.  The 
occupants  of  the  row  of  chairs  stared  at  him  with 
widening  eyes,  mute  and  motionless.  A  sudden 
breeze  came  in  at  the  door  and  turned  the  oblong 
flame  of  the  candle  on  the  mantel  towards  the  wall, 
and  caused  black  ropes  of  smoke  from  the  pine- 
knots  in  the  chimney  to  curl  out  into  the  room  like 


Ann    Boyd 

pyrotechnic  snakes.  Mrs.  Bruce  bent  forward  and 
peered  into  King's  motionless  face  and  smiled  and 
slyly  winked,  then  she  glanced  at  the  serious  faces 
of  the  others,  and  broke  into  a  childish  laugh  of 
genuine  merriment. 

"La  me!  ef  you-uns  ain't  settin'  thar  with 
mouths  open  like  bull-frogs  swallowin'  down  ever'- 
thing  that  boy  says,  as  ef  it  was  so  much  law  an' 
gospel." 

But  none  of  them  entered  her  mood;  indeed,  they 
gave  her  not  so  much  as  a  glance.  Without  reply- 
ing to  her,  King  rose  and  took  the  candle  from  the 
mantel-piece.  He  stood  it  on  the  table  and  laid  a 
folded  document  beside  it.  "There's  the  deed," 
he  said.  "It's  made  out  to  mother  as  long  as  she 
lives,  and  to  fall  eventually  to  her  step-daughters 
and  step-son,  Jake." 

He  left  the  paper  on  the  table  and  went  back  to 
his  chair.  An  awkward  silence  ensued.  It  was 
broken  by  old  Mark.  He  coughed  and  threw  his 
tobacco-quid  out  at  the  door,  and,  smiling  to  hide 
his  half -sceptical  agitation,  he  moved  to  the  table. 
His  gaunt  back  was  to  them,  and  his  grizzled  face 
went  out  of  view  when  he  bent  to  hold  the  paper 
in  the  light. 

"By  Jacks,  that's  what  it  is!"  he  blurted  out. 
"  There '.s  no  shenanigan  about  it.  The  Dickerson 
place  is  Mariar  Habersham  Bruce 's,  ef  /  kin  read 
writin'." 

With  a  great  clatter  of  heavy  shoes  and  tilted  chairs 
falling  back  into  place,  they  rose  and  gathered  about 
him,  leaving  their  benefactor  submerged  in  their 
combined  shadow.  Each  took  the  paper,  examined 

148 


Ann    Boyd 

it  in  reverent  silence,  and  then  slowly  fell  back, 
leaving  the  document  on  the  table.  Mark  Bruce 
started  aimlessly  towards  the  next  room,  but  finally 
turned  to  the  front  door,  where  he  stood  irresolute, 
staring  out  at  the  night-wrapped  mountain  road. 
Mrs.  Bruce  looked  at  Luke  helplessly  and  went  into 
the  next  room,  and,  exchanging  glances  of  dumb 
wonder  with  each  other,  the  girls  followed.  Jake 
noticed  that  the  wind  was  blowing  the  document 
from  the  table,  and  he  rescued  it  and  silently  offered 
it  to  his  step-brother. 

King  motioned  it  from  him.  "  Give  it  to  mother," 
he  said.  "She'll  take  care  of  it;  besides,  it's  been 
recorded  at  the  court-house.  By-the-way,  Dicker- 
son  will  get  out  at  once;  the  transfer  includes  all 
the  furniture,  and  the  crops,  which  are  in  a  good 
condition." 

King  had  Jake's  bed  to  himself  again  that  night. 
For  hours  he  lay  awake  listening  to  the  insistent 
drone  of  conversation  from  the  family,  which  had 
gathered  under  the  apple-trees  in  front  of  the  cabin. 
About  eleven  o'clock  some  one  came  softly  into  his 
room.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  its  beams  fell  in 
at  the  open  door  and  through  a  window  with  a  slid- 
ing wooden  shutter.  It  was  Mrs.  Bruce,  and  she 
was  moving  with  catlike  caution. 

"Is  that  you,  mother?"  he  asked. 

For  an  instant  she  was  so  much  startled  at  find- 
ing him  awake  that  she  made  no  reply.  Then  she 
stammered:  "Oh,  I  was  tryin'  so  hard  not  to  wake 
you!  I  jest  wanted  to  make  shore  yore  bed  was 
comfortable.  We  put  new  straw  in  the  tick  to-day, 
and  sometimes  new  beds  lie  lumpy  and  uneven." 

149 


Ann    Boyd 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "  I  wasn't  asleep, 
anyway." 

He  could  feel  her  still  trembling  in  excitement  as 
she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "I  reckon 
you  couldn't  sleep,  nuther,"  she  said.  "Thar  hain't 
a  shut  eye  in  this  cabin.  They've  all  laid  down,  an' 
laid  down,  an'  got  up  over  an'  over."  She  laughed 
softly  and  twisted  her  hands  nervously  in  her  lap. 
"  We  are  all  that  excited  we  don't  know  which  end 
of  us  is  up.  Why,  Luke,  boy,  it  will  be  the  talk  of 
the  whole  county,  and  it  '11  be  a  big  feather  in  old 
Ann  Boyd's  cap — you  goin'  off  an'  makin'  money 
so  fast  after  she  give  you  your  schoolin',  an'  they 
all  predicted  it  ud  come  to  no  good  end.  Sech 
luck  hain't  fell  to  any  family  as  pore  as  we  are  sence 
I  kin  remember.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  heard  o' 
such  a  thing  in  my  life.  La  me,  it  ud  make  you 
split  your  sides  laughin'  to  set  out  thar  an'  listen 
to  all  the  plans  them  children  are  a-makin'.  But 
Mark,  he  has  the  least  to  say  of  all,  an',  Luke,  as 
happy  as  I  am,  I'm  sorter  sorry  fer  that  pore  old 
fellow.  He  feels  bad  about  the  way  he's  always 
treated  you,  an'  run  down  yore  kind  o'  work.  He's 
too  back'ard  an'  shamefaced  to  ax  yore  pardon,  an' 
in  a  sheepish  sort  of  a  way,  jest  now,  he  hinted  he'd 
like  fer  me  to  plaster  it  over  fer  'im.  He's  a  good 
man,  Luke,  but  he's  gittin'  old  an'  childish,  an'  has 
been  hounded  to  death  by  debt  an'  circumstances." 

"He's  all  right,"  King  said,  strangely  moved. 
"Tell  him  I  have  not  the  slightest  ill-will  against 
him,  an'  I  hope  he'll  get  along  well  on  the  new  place." 

"  Somehow  you  keep  talkin'  like  you  don't  intend 
to  stay  long,"  she  said,  tentatively. 

150 


Ann    Boyd 

"I  know,  but  I  sha'n't  be  far  away,"  he  replied. 
"  I  can  run  up  from  my  work  in  Atlanta  every  now 
and  then,  and  it  would  be  great  to  rest  up  on  a  farm 
among  home  folks,  here  in  the  mountains." 

"Well,  I'll  be  glad  of  that,"  Mrs.  Bruce  said, 
plaintively.  "I  have  got  sorter  used  to  my  step- 
children, but  they  ain't  the  same  as  a  body's  own 
flesh  and  blood.  I'm  proud  of  you,  Luke,"  she 
added,  tremulously.  "After  all  my  fears  that 
you'd  not  come  to  much,  you've  turned  out  to  be 
my  main-stay.  You'll  be  a  great  man  before  you 
die.  Anybody  that  kin  make  an'  throw  away  ten 
thousand  dollars  as  easy  as  you  have,  ain't  no  small 
potato  as  men  go  these  days.  I  reckon  the  trouble 
with  us  all  is  that  none  of  us  had  brains  enough  to 
comprehend  what  yore  aims  was.  But  Ann  Boyd 
did.  She's  the  most  wonderful  woman  that  ever 
lived  in  this  part  of  the  country,  anyhow — kicked 
an'  shoved  about,  hated  an'  hatin',  an'  yet  ever'  now 
an'  then  hittin'  the  nail  square  on  the  head  an' 
doin'  somethin'  big  an'  grand — something  Christ- 
like  an'  holy — like  what  she  done  when  she  with- 
drawed  her  suit  agin  Gus  Willard,  simply  because 
it  would  throw  Mark  out  of  a  job  to  go  on  with  it." 

"Yes,  she's  a  good  woman,  mother." 

Mrs.  Bruce  went  out,  so  that  her  son  might  go  to 
sleep,  but  he  slept  very  little.  All  night,  at  inter- 
vals, the  buzz  of  low  voices  and  sudden  outbursts 
of  merriment  reached  him  and  found  soothing  lodg- 
ment in  his  satisfied  soul.  Then,  too,  he  was  rev- 
elling in  the  memory  of  Virginia  Hemingway's  eyes 
and  voice,  and  a  dazzling  hope  that  his  meeting 
with  her  had  inspired. 


Ann   Boyd 

His  mother  stole  softly  into  his  room  towards 
the  break  of  day.  This  time  it  was  to  bring  an  old 
shawl,  full  of  holes  and  worn  to  shreds,  which  she 
cautiously  spread  over  him,  for  the  mountain  air 
had  grown  cool.  She  thought  him  asleep,  but  as 
she  was  turning  away  he  caught  her  hand  and  drew 
her  down  and  kissed  her. 

"Why,  Luke!"  she  exclaimed;  "don't  be  foolish! 
What's  got  in  you?  I —  But  her  voice  had  grown 
husky,  and  her  words  died  away  in  an  irrepressible 
sob.  She  did  not  stir  for  an  instant,  then  she  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 


XVII 

was  in  the  latter  part  of  August. 
Breezes  with  just  a  touch  of  autumnal 
crispness  bore  down  from  the  moun- 
tain-sides, clipping  from  their  stems 
the  first  dead  and  dying  leaves,  and 
swept  on  across  Ann  Boyd's  level  cotton-fields,  where 
she  was  at  work  at  the  head  of  a  score  of  cotton- 
pickers — negro  men,  boys,  women,  and  girls.  There 
were  certain  social  reasons  why  the  unemployed  poor 
white  females  would  not  labor  under  this  strange 
woman,  though  they  needed  her  ready  money  as 
badly  as  the  blacks,  and  that,  too,  was  a  constant 
thorn  in  the  flesh  of  Ann's  pride.  She  could  afford 
to  pay  well  for  work,  inasmuch  as  her  planting 
and  harvesting  were  invariably  profitable.  She  had 
good  agricultural  judgment,  and  she  used  it.  Even 
her  cotton  picking  would  average  up  better  to  the 
acre  than  any  other  farmer's,  for  she  saw  to  it  that 
her  workers  put  in  good  time  and  left  no  white, 
fluttering  scrap  on  stalk,  leaf,  or  bole  to  attract  the 
birds  looking  for  linings  for  their  winter's  nests. 
When  her  black  band  had  left  a  portion  of  her  field, 
it  was  as  if  a  forest  fire  had  swept  over  it,  leaving  it 
brown  and  bare.  The  negroes  were  always  ready 
to  work  for  her,  for  the  best  of  them  were  never 
criticised  for  having  done  so.  The  most  fault- 


Ann   Boyd 

finding  of  her  enemies  had  even  been  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  only 
negroes  would  sink  so  low  as  to  toil  by  her  side.  But 
the  blacks  didn't  care,  and  in  their  taciturn  fidelity 
they  never  said  aught  against  her.  As  a  rule,  the 
colored  people  had  contempt  for  the  "pore  white 
trash,"  and  reverenced  the  ex-slave-holder  and  his 
family;  but  Ann  Boyd  was  neither  one  nor  the 
other.  She  was  rich,  and  therefore  powerful  —  a 
creature  to  be  measured  by  no  existing  standards. 
When  they  worked  for  their  old  owners  and  others  of 
the  same  impoverished  class,  they  were  asked  to 
take  in  payment  old  clothing,  meat — and  not  the 
choicest  —  from  the  smoke-house,  and  grain  from 
the  barn,  or  a  questionable  order  to  some  store- 
keeper who,  being  dubious  about  the  planter's  ac- 
count himself,  usually  charged  double  in  self-pro- 
tection. But  on  Ann's  place  it  was  different.  At 
the  end  of  each  day,  hard,  jingling  cash  was  laid  into 
their  ready  palms,  and  it  was  symbolic  of  the  free- 
dom which  years  before  had  been  talked  about  so 
much,  but  which  somehow  had  appeared  in  name 
only.  Yes,  Ann  Boyd  was  different.  Coming  in 
closer  contact  with  her  than  the  whites,  they  knew 
her  better  and  felt  her  inherent  worth.  They  al- 
ways addressed  her  as  "Miss  Ann,"  and  as  "Miss 
Ann"  she  was  known  among  them  far  and  near — 
a  queer,  powerful  individuality  about  whose  private 
life — having  naught  to  lose  or  gain  by  it — they 
never  gossiped. 

On  the  present  day,  when  the  sun  dipped  below 
the  mountain-top,  Ann  raised  the  cow's  horn,  which 
she  always  wore  at  her  belt,  and  blew  a  resounding 


Ann    Boyd 

blast  upon  it.  This  was  the  signal  that  the  day's 
toil  was  ended,  and  yet  so  faithful  were  her  black 
allies  that  each  tried  to  complete  the  row  he  hap- 
pened to  be  on  before  he  brought  in  his  bag.  The 
crop  for  the  year  was  good  over  all  that  portion  of 
the  state,  and  the  newspapers,  which  Ann  read 
carefully  by  candle-light  at  night,  were  saying  that, 
owing  to  the  little  cotton  being  produced  in  other 
parts  of  the  South,  the  price  was  going  to  be  high. 
And  that  meant  that  Ann  Boyd  would  be  a  "  holder  " 
in  the  market — not  needing  ready  money,  her  bales 
would  remain  in  a  warehouse  in  Darley  till  the  high- 
est price  had  been  reached  in  the  long-headed  wom- 
an's judgment,  which  in  this,  too,  was  always  good 
— so  good,  in  fact,  that  the  Darley  cotton  speculators 
were  often  guided  by  it  to  their  advantage. 

The  gathering-bags  all  in  the  cotton-house,  Ann 
locked  the  rusty  padlock,  paid  the  toilers  from  her 
leather  bag,  and  trudged  home  to  her  well-earned 
supper.  When  that  was  prepared  and  eaten,  she 
moved  her  chair  to  the  front  porch  and  sat  down; 
but  the  air  was  cool  to  unpleasantness,  and  she 
moved  back  into  the  gracious  warmth  of  the  big, 
open  fire.  All  the  afternoon  her  heart  had  thrilled 
over  a  report  that  Jane  Hemingway's  small  cotton 
crop  was  being  hastily  and  carelessly  gathered  and 
sold  at  the  present  low  price  by  the  man  who  held 
a  mortgage  on  it.  It  pleased  Ann  to  think  that 
Jane  would  later  hear  of  her  own  high  receipts  and 
be  stung  by  it.  Then,  too,  she  had  heard  that  Jane 
was  more  and  more  concerned  about  her  bodily 
affliction  and  the  inability  to  receive  proper  treat- 
ment. Yes,  Jane  was  getting  payment  for  what 


Ann    Boyd 

she  had  done  in  such  an  underhanded  way,  and  Ann 
was  glad  of  it. 

Other  things  had  not  gone  to  please  Ann  of  late. 
She  had  tried  her  best  to  be  in  sympathy  with  Luke 
King's  action  in  paying  out  his  last  dollar  of  ready 
money  for  a  farm  for  his  family,  whom  she  heartily 
despised  for  their  treatment  of  her,  but  she  could 
not  see  it  from  the  young  man's  sanguine  and  cheer- 
ful stand -point.  She  had  seen  the  Bruce  family 
driving  by  in  one  of  the  old-fashioned  vehicles  the 
Dickersons  had  owned,  and  the  sight  had  seemed 
ludicrous  to  her.  "The  boy  will  never  amount  to 
anything,"  she  said.  "He'll  be  poor  all  his  life. 
He'll  let  anybody  impose  on  him."  And  yet  she 
loved  him  with  a  strange,  insistent  affection  she 
could  hardly  understand.  Even  when  she  had  bit- 
terly upbraided  him  for  that  amazing  act  of  im- 
pulsive generosity,  as  he  sat  in  her  doorway  the 
next  morning,  and  she  saw  the  youthful  blaze  of 
enthusiasm  in  his  eyes  as  he  essayed  to  justify  his 
course  by  the  theories  of  life  which  had  guided  him 
in  his  professional  career  —  even  then  an  impulse 
was  tugging  at  her  heart  to  listen  and  believe  the 
things  he  was  so  ardently  declaring  would  free  her 
from  her  bondage  to  hate  and  avarice.  She  could 
have  kissed  him  as  she  might  have  kissed  a  happy, 
misguided  son,  and  yet  her  coldness,  her  severity, 
she  argued,  was  to  be  for  his  ultimate  good.  He  had 
sent  her  copies  of  his  new  paper,  with  his  editorials 
proudly  marked  in  blue  pencil.  They  were  all  in 
the  same  altruistic  vein,  and,  strange  to  say,  the  ex- 
tracts printed  from  leading  journals  all  over  the 
South  in  regard  to  his  work  were  full  of  hearty 

156 


Ann    Boyd 

approval.  He  had  become  a  great  factor  for  good 
in  the  world.  He  was  one  man  who  had  the  un- 
faltering courage  of  his  convictions.  Ann  laughed 
to  herself  as  she  recalled  all  she  had  said  to  him 
that  day.  No  wonder  that  he  had  thrown  it  off 
with  a  smile  and  a  playful  kiss,  when  such  high 
authorities  were  backing  him  up.  True,  he  might 
live  in  such  a  way  as  never  to  need  the  money  which 
had  been  her  weapon  of  defence,  and  he  might 
finally  rise  to  a  sort  of  penniless  greatness.  Besides, 
his  life  was  one  thing,  hers  another.  No  great  ca- 
lamity had  come  to  him  in  youth,  such  as  she  had 
known  and  so  grimly  fought;  no  persistent  enemy 
was  following  his  track  with  the  scent  and  bay  of 
a  blood-hound,  night  and  day  seeking  to  rend  him 
to  pieces. 

These  reflections  were  suddenly  disturbed  by  a 
most  unusual  sound  at  that  time  of  night.  It  was 
the  sharp  click  of  the  iron  gate-latch.  Ann's  heart 
sprang  to  her  throat  and  seemed  to  be  held  there 
by  taut  suspense.  She  stood  up,  her  hand  on  the 
mantel-piece,  bending  her  ears  for  further  sounds. 
Then  she  heard  a  heavy,  even  tread  approaching. 
How  could  it  be  ?  And  yet,  though  a  score  of  years 
had  sped  since  it  had  fallen  on  her  ears,  she  knew 
it  well.  "It  can't  be!"  she  gasped.  "It's  some- 
body else  that  happens  to  walk  like  him;  he'd  never 
dare  to — " 

The  step  had  reached  the  porch.  The  sagging 
floor  bent  and  creaked.  It  was  Joe  Boyd.  She 
knew  it  now  full  well,  for  no  else  would  have  paused 
like  that  before  rapping.  There  was  silence.  The 
visitor  was  actually  feeling  for  the  door-latch.  It 


Ann    Boyd 

was  like  Joe  Boyd,  after  years  of  absence,  to  have 
thought  to  enter  her  house  as  of  old  without 
the  formality  of  announcing  himself.  He  tried  the 
latch;  the  door  was  fast.  He  paused  another  mo- 
ment, then  rapped  firmly  and  loudly.  Ann  stood 
motionless,  her  face  pale  and  set  almost  in  a  gri- 
mace of  expectancy.  Then  Boyd  stalked  heavily  to 
the  window  at  the  end  of  the  porch;  she  saw  his 
bushy  head  and  beard  against  the  small  square  of 
glass.  As  one  walking  in  sleep,  Ann  stepped  close 
to  the  window,  and  through  the  glass  their  eyes 
met  in  the  first  visual  greeting  since  he  had  gone 
away. 

"  Open  the  door,  Ann,"  he  said,  simply.  "  I  want 
to  see  you." 

"Huh,  you  do,  do  you?"  she  cried.  "Well,  you 
march  3^ourself  through  that  gate  an'  come  round 
here  in  daytime.  I  see  myself  opening  up  at  night 
for  you  or  anybody  else." 

He  pressed  his  face  closer  to  the  glass.  His 
breath  spread  moisture  upon  it,  and  he  raised  his 
hands  on  either  side  of  his  head  that  he  might  more 
clearly  see  within. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Ann,"  he  repeated,  simply. 
"I've  been  riding  since  dinner,  and  just  got  here; 
my  hoss  is  lame." 

"Huh!"  she  sniffed.  "I  tell  you,  Joe  Boyd,  I'll 
not — "  She  went  no  further.  Something  in  his 
aging  features  tied  her  tongue.  He  had  really  al- 
tered remarkably;  his  face  was  full  of  lines  cut 
since  she  had  seen  him.  His  beard  had  grown 
rough  and  bristly,  as  had  his  heavy  eyebrows.  How 
little  was  he  now  like  the  once  popular  beau  of 

158 


Ann   Boyd 

the  country-side  who  had  been  considered  the  best 
"catch"  among  young  farmers!  No,  she  had  not 
thought  of  him  as  such  a  wreck,  such  an  imperso- 
nation of  utter  failure,  and  even  resignation  to  it. 

"  I  reckon  you'd  better  open  the  door  an'  let  me 
in,  Ann,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  bother  you  long.  I've 
just  a  few  words  to  say.  It's  not  about  me.  It's 
about  Nettie." 

"Oh,  it's  about  the  child!"  'Ann  breathed  more 
freely.  "Well,  wait  a  minute,  till  I  make  a  light." 

He  saw  her  go  to  the  mantel-piece  and  get  a  candle 
and  bend  over  the  fire.  There  was  a  sudden  flare 
of  bluish  flame  as  the  dripping  tallow  became  ignited 
in  the  hot  ashes,  then  she  straightened  up  and 
placed  the  light  on  a  table.  She  moved  slowly  to 
the  door  and  opened  it.  They  stood  face  to  face. 
He  started — as  if  from  the  habit  of  general  greeting 
— to  hold  out  his  rough  hand,  but  changed  his  mind 
and  rubbed  it  awkwardly  against  his  thigh  as  his 
dumb  stare  clung  to  hers. 

"Yes,"  he  began,  doggedly,  "it's  about  Nettie." 
He  had  started  to  close  the  door  after  him,  but, 
grasping  the  shutter  firmly,  Ann  pushed  it  back 
against  the  wall. 

"Let  the  door  stand  open,"  she  said,  harshly. 

"Oh,"  he  grunted,  stupidly,  "I  didn't  know  but 
somebody  passin'  along  the  road  might — " 

"Well,  let  'em  pass  and  look  in,  too,"  Ann  re- 
torted. "I'd  a  sight  rather  they'd  pass  and  see 
you  here  in  open  candle-light  than  to  have  the  door 
of  my  house  closed  with  us  two  behind  it.  Huh!" 

"Well,"  he  said,  a  blear  in  his  big,  weary  eyes, 
"you  know  best,  I  reckon.  I  admit  I  don't  go  deep 


Ann    Boyd 

into  such  matters.  It's  sorter  funny  to  see  you  so 
particular,  though,  and  with — with  me." 

He  walked  to  the  fire  and  mechanically  held  out 
his  hands  to  the  warmth.  Then,  with  his  back  to 
the  red  glow,  he  stood  awkwardly,  his  eyes  on  the 
floor.  After  a  pause,  he  said,  suddenly:  "If  you 
don't  mind,  Ann,  I'd  rather  set  down.  I'm  tired  to 
death,  nearly,  from  that  blasted  long  ride.  Coming 
down-hill  for  five  or  six  miles  on  a  slow,  stiff- jointed 
hoss  is  heavy  on  a  man  as  old  as  I  am." 

She  reached  behind  her  and  gave  him  a  chair,  but 
refused  to  sit  down  herself,  standing  near  him  as  he 
sank  into  the  chair;  and,  quite  in  his  old  way,  she 
noticed  he  thrust  out  his  pitifully  ill-shod  feet  to 
the  flames  and  clasped  his  hair-grown  hands  in  his 
lap  —  that,  too,  in  the  old  way,  but  with  added 
feebleness. 

"You  said  it  was  about  the  child,"  Ann  reminded 
him.  "Ain't  she  well?" 

"Oh  yes,  she's  well  an'  hearty,"  Boyd  made 
haste  to  reply.  "I  reckon  you  may  think  it's  odd 
fer  me  to  ride  away  over  here,  but,  Ann,  I'm  a  man 
that  feels  like  I  want  to  do  my  full  duty  if  I  can  in 
this  life,  and  I've  been  bothering  a  lots  here  lately — • 
a  lots.  I've  lost  sleep  over  a  certain  delicate  mat- 
ter, but  nothing  I  kin  do  seems  to  help  me  out. 
It's  a  thing,  you  see,  that  I  couldn't  well  ask  advice 
on,  and  so  I  had  to  tussle  with  it  in  private.  Finally 
I  thought  I'd  just  ride  over  and  lay  the  whole  thing 
before  you." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Ann  asked. 

"It's  about  the  hardest  thing  to  talk  about  that 
I  ever  tried  to  approach,"  Boyd  said,  with  lowered 

1 60 


Ann    Boyd 

glance,  "but  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  get  it  out  and  be 
done  with  it,  one  way  or  another.  You  see,  Ann, 
when  the  law  gave  me  the  custody  of  the  child  I 
was  a  younger  man,  with  more  outlook  and  health 
and  management,  in  the  judgment  of  the  court,  than 
I've  got  now,  and  I  thought  that  what  I  couldn't 
do  for  my  own  flesh  and  blood  nobody  else  could, 
and  so  I  took  her  off." 

"  Yes,  you  took  her  off!"  Ann  straightened  up, 
and  a  sneer  touched  her  set  features;  there  was  a 
sarcastic,  almost  triumphant  cry  of  vindictiveness  in 
her  tone. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  all  that,"  Boyd  continued.  "  And 
I  meant  well,  but  miscalculated  my  own  capacity 
and  endurance.  Instead  of  making  money  hand 
over  hand  as  folks  said  almost  any  man  could  do 
out  West,  I  sunk  all  I  put  in.  We  come  back  this 
way  then,  and  I  located  in  Gilmer,  thinking  I'd  do 
better  on  soil  I  understood,  and  among  the  kind  o' 
folks  and  religion  I  was  used  to,  but  it's  been  down- 
hill work  ever  since  then.  When  Nettie  was  little 
it  didn't  seem  like  so  much  was  demanded,  but  now, 
Ann,  she's  like  all  the  balance  o'  young  women  of 
her  age.  She  wants  things  like  the  rest  around  her, 
an'  she  pines  for  them,  an'  sulks,  and — and  makes 
me  feel  awful.  It's  a  powerful  hard  matter  for  me 
to  dress  her  like  some  o'  the  rest  about  us,  and  she's 
the  proudest  thing  that  ever  wore  shoe-leather." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Ann.  "She's  going  about,  too, 
with — she's  bein'  courted  by  some  feller  or  other." 

"Yes,  Sam  Lawson,  over  there,  a  likely  young 
chap,  has  taken  a  big  fancy  to  her,  and  he's  good 
enough,  too,  but  I  reckon  a  little  under  the  influence 

161 


Ann  Boyd 

of  his  daddy,  who  is  a  hard-shell  Baptist,  a  man  that 
believes  in  sanctification  and  talks  it  all  the  time. 
Well,  to  come  down  to  it,  things  between  Nettie 
and  Sam  is  sorter  hanging  fire,  and  Nettie's  nearly 
crazy  for  fear  it  will  fall  through.  And  that's  why, 
right  now,  I  screwed  up  to  the  point  of  coming  to 
see  you." 

"You  thought  I  could  help  her  out  in  her  court- 
ing?" Ann  sneered,  and  yet  beneath  her  sneer  lay 
an  almost  eager  curiosity. 

"Well,  not  that  exactly" — Joe  Boyd  spread  out 
his  rough  fingers  very  wide  to  embrace  as  much  of 
his  dust-coated  beard  as  possible;  he  pulled  down- 
ward on  a  rope  of  it,  and  let  his  shifting  glance  rest 
on  the  fire — "not  that  exactly,  Ann." 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  understand,  Joe  Boyd,"  Ann 
said;  "and  let  me  tell  you  that  no  matter  what  sort 
of  young  thing  I  was  when  we  lived  together,  I'm 
now  a  business  woman,  and  a  successful  one,  and  I 
have  a  habit  of  not  beating  about  the  bush.  I  talk 
straight  and  make  others  do  the  same.  Business  is 
business,  and  life  is  short." 

"Well,  I'll  talk  as  straight  as  I  can,"  Boyd  swal- 
lowed. "You  see,  as  I  say,  old  Lawson  is  a  narrow, 
grasping  kind  of  a  man,  and  he  can't  bear  the  idea 
of  his  only  boy  not  coming  into  something,  even 
if  it's  very  little,  and  I  happen  to  know  that  he's 
been  expecting  my  little  farm  over  there  to  fall  to 
Nettie." 

"Well,  won't  it?"  Ann  demanded. 

Boyd  lowered  his  shaggy  head.  There  was  a 
piteous  flicker  of  despair  in  the  lashes  of  the  eyes 
Ann  had  once  loved  so  well. 

162 


Ann   Boyd 

"It's  mortgaged  to  the  hilt,  Ann,"  he  gulped, 
"and  next  Wednesday  if  I  can't  pay  down  five 
hundred  to  Carson  in  Darley,  it  will  go  under  the 
hammer.  That  will  bust  Nettie's  love  business  all 
to  flinders.  Old  Lawson's  got  Sam  under  his  thumb, 
and  he'll  call  it  off.  Nettie  knows  all  about  it. 
She's  no  fool  for  a  girl  of  her  age;  she  found  out 
about  the  debt ;  she  hardly  sleeps  a  wink,  but  mopes 
about  with  red  eyes  all  day  long.  I  thought  I  had 
trouble  away  back  when  me  'n'  you — away  back 
there,  you  know — but  I  was  younger  then,  and  this 
sorter  seems  to  be  my  fault." 

Ann  fell  to  quivering  with  excitement  as  she 
reached  for  a  chair  and  leaned  upon  it,  her  stout 
knee  in  the  seat,  her  strong,  bare  arms  resting  on 
the  back. 

"Right  here  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question,  Joe 
Boyd,  before  we  go  a  step  further.  Did  Mary  Way- 
croft  make  a  proposal  to  Nettie — did  Mary  Way- 
croft  hint  to  Nettie  that  maybe  I'd  be  willing  to 
help  her  along  in  some  substantial  way?" 

The  farmer  raised  a  pair  of  shifting  eyes  to  the 
piercing  orbs  above  him,  and  then  looked  down. 

"I  believe  she  did  something  of  the  sort,  Ann,"  he 
said,  reluctantly,  "but,  you  see — " 

"  I  see  nothing  but  this,"  Ann  threw  into  the  gap 
left  by  his  sheer  inability  to  proceed — "  I  see  nothing 
but  the  fact  that  my  proposition  scared  her  nearly 
to  death.  She  was  afraid  it  would  get  out  that  she 
was  having  something  to  do  with  me,  and  now,  if  I 
do  rescue  this  land  from  public  sale,  I  must  keep 
in  the  background,  not  even  let  her  know  where 
the  money  is  coming  from." 

163 


Ann  Boyd 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  Boyd  said,  heavily  stricken 
by  the  combined  force  of  her  tone  and  words.  "  The 
— the  whole  thing's  for  you  to  decide  on.  I've  tus- 
sled with  it  till  I'm  sick  and  tired.  I  wouldn't 
have  come  over  if  I  hadn't  thought  it  was  my 
bounden  duty  to  lay  it  before  you.  The  situation 
has  growed  up  unforeseen  out  of  my  trouble  and 
yours.  If  you  want  the  girl's  land  to  go  under 
hammer  and  bust  up  her  marriage,  that's  all  right. 
I  won't  cry  about  it,  for  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope. 
You  see,  law  or  no  law,  she's  yore  natural  flesh  and 
blood,  jest  as  she  is  mine,  an'  she  wasn't — the  girl 
wasn't  responsible  fer  what  you  an'  me  tuck  a  no- 
tion to  do  away  back  there.  The  report  is  out 
generally  that  everything  you  touch  somehow  turns 
to  gold — that  you  are  rolling  in  money.  That's 
the  reason  I  thought  it  was  my  duty — by  God, 
Ann  Lincoln" — his  eyes  were  flashing  with  some- 
thing like  the  fire  which  had  blazed  in  them  when 
he  had  gone  away  in  his  health  and  prime — •"  I 
wouldn't  ask  you  for  a  red  cent,  for  myself,  not  if 
I  was  dying  for  a  mouthful  of  something  to  eat. 
I'm  doing  this  because  it  seems  right  according 
to  my  poor  lights.  The  child's  happiness  is  at 
stake;  you  can  look  at  it  as  you  want  to  and  act 
as  you  see  fit." 

Ann  bit  her  lip ;  a  shudder  passed  over  her  strong 
frame  from  head  to  foot.  She  lowered  her  big  head 
to  her  hands.  "Sometimes,"  she  groaned,  "I  wish 
I  could  actually  curse  God  for  the  unfairness  of  my 
lot.  The  hardest  things  that  ever  fell  to  the  fate  of 
any  human  being  have  been  mine.  In  agony,  Jesus 
Christ  prayed,  they  say,  to  let  His  cup  pass  if  pos- 

164 


Ann    Boyd 

sible.  His  cup !  What  was  His  cup  ?  Just  death — 
that's  all;  but  this  is  a  million  times  worse  than 
death  —  this  here  crucifixion  of  pride  —  this  here 
forcing  me  to  help  and  protect  people  who  deny  me, 
who  shiver  at  a  hint  of  my  approach,  yelling  'Un- 
clean, unclean!'  like  the  lepers  outside  the  city 
gates — beyond  the  walls  that  encompass  accepted 
humanity.  Joe  Boyd"  —  she  raised  her  face  and 
stared  at  him — "you  don't  no  more  know  me 
than  you  know  the  stars  above  your  head.  I  am 
no  more  the  silly  girl  that  you  married  than  I  am 
some  one  else.  I  learned  the  lesson  of  life  away 
back  there  when  you  left  in  that  wagon  with  the 
child  of  my  breast.  I  have  fought  a  long  battle, 
and  I'm  still  fighting.  To  me,  with  all  my  experi- 
ence, you — you  poor  little  thing — are  a  baby  of  a 
man.  You  had  a  wife  who,  if  she  does  say  it,  had 
the  brain  of  a  dozen  such  men  as  you  are,  and  yet 
you  listened  to  the  talk  of  a  weak,  jealous,  disap- 
pointed woman  and  came  and  dared  to  wipe  your 
feet  on  me,  spit  in  my  face,  and  drag  my  name  into 
the  mire  of  public  court.  I  made  no  defence  then — 
I  don't  make  any  now.  I'll  never  make  any.  My 
life  shall  be  my  defence  before  God,  and  Him  only. 
I  wish  it  could  be  a  lesson  to  all  young  women  who 
are  led  into  misfortune  such  as  mine.  To  every 
unfortunate  girl  I'd  say,  'Never  marry  a  man  too 
weak  to  understand  and  appreciate  you.'  I  loved 
you,  Joe  Boyd,  as  much  as  a  woman  ever  loved  a 
man,  but  it  was  like  the  love  of  a  strong  man  for  a 
weak,  dependent  woman.  Somehow  I  gloried  in  your 
big,  hulking  helplessness.  What  I  have  since  done  in 
the  management  of  affairs  I  wanted  to  do  for  you," 

165 


Ann    Boyd 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  that,  Ann,  but  this  is  no  time  or 
place  to — " 

"But  it's  got  to  be  the  time  and  place,"  she  re- 
torted, shaking  a  stiff  finger  in  his  face.  "I  want 
to  show  you  one  side  of  this  matter.  I  won't  men- 
tion names,  but  a  man,  an  old  man,  come  to  me  one 
day.  He  set  there  on  my  door-step  and  told  me 
about  his  life  of  his  own  free  will  and  accord,  be- 
cause he'd  heard  of  mine,  and  wanted  to  comfort 
me.  He'd  just  buried  his  wife — a  woman  he'd 
lived  with  for  thirty-odd  years,  and  big  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks  while  he  was  talking.  He  said  he 
was  going  to  tell  me  what  he'd  never  told  a  living 
soul.  He  said  away  back,  when  he  was  young,  he 
loved  his  wife  and  courted  her.  He  saw  that  she 
loved  him,  but  she  kept  holding  off  and  wouldn't 
give  in  till  he  was  nearly  distracted;  then  he  said 
her  mother  come  to  him  and  told  him  what  the 
trouble  was.  It  was  because  the  girl  had  had  bad 
luck  like  I  did.  She  loved  him  and  wanted  to 
make  him  a  good  wife,  but  was  afraid  it  would  be 
wrong.  He  said  he  told  the  girl's  mother  that  it 
made  no  difference  to  him,  and  that  he  then  and 
there  promised  never  on  this  earth  to  mention  it  to 
her,  and  he  never  did.  She  was  the  woman  he 
lived  with  for  a  third  of  a  century  in  holy  wedlock, 
and  who  he  couldn't  speak  of  without  shedding  tears. 
Now,  Joe  Boyd,  here's  my  point — the  only  difference 
I  can  see  in  that  woman's  conduct  and  mine  is  that 
I  would  have  told  you,  but  I  didn't  think  you  was 
the  kind  of  a  man  to  tell  a  thing  like  that  to.  I 
didn't  think  you  was  strong  enough,  as  a  man,  but 
I  thought  your  happiness  and  mine  depended  on 

1 66 


Ann    Boyd 

our  marriage,  and  so  after  you  had  dogged  my  steps 
for  years  I  consented.  So  you  see,  if — if,  I  say — 
you  had  gone  and  let  the  old  matter  drop,  you 
wouldn't  have  been  in  the  plight  you  are  now,  and 
our  child  would  have  had  more  of  the  things  she 
needed." 

"There  are  two  sides  to  it,"  Boyd  said,  raising  a 
sullen  glance  to  her  impassioned  face.  "And  that 
reminds  me  of  an  old  man  I  knew  about.  He  was 
the  best  husband  that  ever  walked  the  earth.  He 
loved  his  wife  and  children,  and  when  he  was  seventy- 
two  years  of  age  he  used  to  totter  about  with  his 
grandchildren  all  day  long,  loving  them  with  his 
whole  heart.  Then  one  day  proof  was  handed  him — 
actual  proof — that  not  a  speck  of  his  blood  flowed 
in  their  veins.  He  was  hugging  one  of  the  little 
ones  in  his  arms  when  he  heard  the  truth.  Ann,  it 
killed  him.  That's  t'other  side.  You  nor  me  can't 
handle  a  matter  as  big  and  endless  as  that  is.  The 
Lord  God  of  the  universe  is  handling  ours.  We  can 
talk  and  plan,  but  most  of  us,  in  a  pinch,  will  do  as 
generations  before  us  have  done  in  sech  delicate 
matters." 

"  I  suppose  so."  Ann's  lips  were  white;  there  was 
a  wild,  hunted  look  in  her  great,  staring  eyes. 

"  I  tried  to  reason  myself  out  of  the  action  I 
finally  took,"  Boyd  went  on,  deliberately,  "but 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  I  was  bothered  nigh 
to  death.  The  thing  was  running  me  stark  crazy. 
I  had  to  chop  it  off,  and  I'm  frank  to  say,  even  at 
this  late  day,  that  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  done 
otherwise.  But  I  didn't  come  here  to  fetch  all  this 
up.  It  was  just  the  other  matter,  and  the  belief 

167 


Ann    Boyd 

that  it  was  my  duty  to  give  you  a  chance  to  act  on 
it  as  you  saw  fit." 

"  If  her  wedding  depends  on  it,  the  farm  must  be 
saved,"  Ann  said,  quietly.  "I  give  away  money 
to  others,  why  shouldn't  I  to — to  her?  I'll  get  a 
blank  and  write  a  check  for  the  money." 

He  lowered  his  head,  staring  at  the  flames. 
"That's  for  you  to  decide,"  he  muttered.  "When 
the  debt  is  paid  the  land  shall  be  deeded  to  her. 
I'll  die  rather  than  borrow  on  it  again." 

Ann  went  to  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  and 
took  down  a  pad  of  blank  checks  and  a  pen  and  bot- 
tle of  ink.  Placing  them  on  the  table,  she  sat  down 
and  began  to  write  with  a  steady  hand  and  a  firm 
tilt  of  her  head  to  one  side. 

"Hold  on!"  Boyd  said,  turning  his  slow  glance 
upon  her.  "Excuse  me,  but  there's  one  thing  we 
haven't  thought  of." 

Ann  looked  up  from  the  paper  questioningly. 
"What  is  that?" 

"Why,  you  see,  I  reckon  I'd  have  to  get  that 
check  cashed  somewhere,  Ann,  and  as  it  will  have 
your  name  on  it,  why,  you  see,  in  a  country  where 
everybody  knows  everybody  else's  business — " 

"  I  understand,"  Ann  broke  in — "  they  would  know 
I  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"  Yes,  they  would  know  that,  of  course,  if  I  made 
use  of  that  particular  check." 

Ann  Boyd  rested  her  massive  jaw  on  her  hand  in 
such  a  way  as  to  hide  her  face  from  his  view.  She 
was  still  and  silent  for  a  minute,  then  she  rose,  and, 
going  to  the  fire,  she  bent  to  the  flame  of  a  pine- 
knot  and  destroyed  the  slip  of  paper. 

168 


Ann  Boyd 

"  I  don't  usually  keep  that  much  money  about  the 
house,"  she  said,  looking  down  on  him,  "but  I  hap- 
pen to  have  some  hidden  away.  Go  out  and  get 
your  horse  ready  and  I'll  bring  it  to  you  at  the 
fence." 

He  obeyed,  rising  stiffly  from  his  chair  and  reach- 
ing for  his  worn  slouch  hat. 

He  was  standing  holding  his  bony  horse  by  the 
rein  when  she  came  out  a  few  minutes  later  and 
gave  him  a  roll  of  bills  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  cloth. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said.  "  You  came  after  it  under 
a  sense  of  duty,  and  I  am  sending  it  the  same  way. 
I  may  be  made  out  of  odd  material,  but  I  don't  care 
one  single  thing  about  the  girl.  If  you  had  come 
and  told  me  she  was  dead,  I  don't  think  I'd  have 
felt  one  bit  different.  It  might  have  made  me  a 
little  curious  to  know  which  of  us  was  going  next — 
you,  me,  or  her — that's  all.  Good-bye,  Joe  Boyd." 

"Good-bye,  Ann,"  he  grunted,  as  he  mounted  his 
horse.  "I'll  see  that  this  matter  goes  through 
right." 


XVIII 

'OLONEL  PRESTON  CHESTER  and 
his  son  Langdon  were  at  breakfast  two 
days  after  this.  The  dining-room  of 
the  old  mansion  was  a  long,  narrow 
chamber  on  the  first  floor,  connected 
with  the  brick  kitchen  outside  by  a  wooden  passage, 
roofed,  latticed  at  both  sides,  and  vine-grown.  The 
dining-room  had  several  wide  windows  which  opened 
on  a  level  with  the  floor  of  the  side  veranda.  Strong 
coffee,  hot  biscuits,  and  birds  delicately  browned 
were  brought  in  by  a  turbaned  black  woman,  who 
had  once  been  a  slave  in  the  family,  and  then  she 
discreetly  retired. 

The  old  gentleman,  white-haired,  pink  and  clear 
of  complexion,  and  wearing  a  flowing  mustache 
and  an  imperial,  which  he  nervously  clutched  and 
twisted  in  his  soft  fingers,  was  not  in  a  good  humor. 
"  Here  I  am  ready  to  go  to  Savannah,  as  I  prom- 
ised, to  pay  a  visit  and  bring  your  mother  back," 
he  fumed,  "and  now  find  that  you  have  taxed  my 
credit  at  the  bank  so  heavily  with  your  blasted  idle- 
ness and  poker  debts  that  they  actually  gave  me  a 
lecture  about  my  financial  condition.  But  I've  cer- 
tainly headed  you  off,  sir.  I  left  positive  orders 
that  no  check  of  yours  is  to  be  honored  during  my 
absence." 

170 


Ann    Boyd 

"You  did  that,  father?    Why—" 

"Of  course  I  did  it.  I  can't  put  up  with  your 
extravagance  and  damnable  habits,  and  I  don't  in- 
tend to." 

"But,  father,  I've  heard  you  say  you  cost  your 
parents  on  an  average  of  four  thousand  dollars  a 
year  before  you  got  married,  and — " 

"Don't  begin  that  twaddle  over  again,"  roared 
the  Colonel  in  his  coffee-cup.  "What  my  father 
did  for  me  in  those  easy  times  has  nothing  to  do 
with  our  condition  in  the  present  day.  Besides,  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  times  to  live  high,  while  now 
it's  coming  to  be  a  disgrace  to  be  idle  or  to  have 
luxuries.  We've  got  to  work  like  the  rest  at  some- 
thing or  other.  Here's  that  Luke  King  back  from 
the  West  with  enough  money  to  install  his  whole 
gang  of  white  trash  in  one  of  the  best  places  in  the 
entire  river  valley,  and  is  conducting  a  paper  in 
Atlanta  that  everybody  is  talking  about.  Why, 
blast  it  all,  I  heard  Governor  Crawford  say  at  the 
Capital  City  Club  the  other  day  that  if  he — mind 
you,  the  governor  of  the  State  —  if  he  could  get 
King's  influence  he  would  be  re-elected  sure.  Think 
of  that,  when  I  put  a  fortune  into  your  education. 
You  are  doing  nothing  for  your  name,  while  he's 
climbing  like  that  on  the  poor  chances  he  had." 

"Oh,  he  had  education,  such  as  he  needed," 
Langdon  replied,  with  a  retaliatory  glance  at  his 
father.  "  Ann  Boyd  sent  him  to  school,  you  know." 

The  old  man's  eyes  wavered;  he  drank  from  his 
cup  silently,  and  then  carefully  wiped  his  mustache 
on  his  napkin.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Langdon 
had  dared  to  pronounce  the  woman's  name  in  his 

171 


Ann    Boyd 

presence,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  Colonel  dreaded 
further  allusions. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  make  the  trip  to  Savannah," 
he  said,  still  avoiding  his  son's  glance,  and  trying  to 
keep  up  his  attitude  of  cold  reproof.  He  was  be- 
coming convinced  that  Langdon  was  acquiring  a 
most  disagreeable  habit  of  justifying  his  own  wild 
conduct  by  what  he  had  heard  of  his  father's  past, 
and  this  was  decidedly  irritating  to  the  planter, 
who  found  enough  to  reproach  himself  with  in  re- 
flecting upon  what  he  had  gone  through  without 
being  held  accountable  for  another  career  which 
looked  quite  as  bad  in  the  bud  and  might  bear  even 
worse  fruit. 

"Yes,  I  think  myself,  all  jokes  aside,  that  you 
ought  to  go,"  Langdon  said.  "I'll  do  the  best  I 
can  to  keep  things  straight  here.  The  hunting  will 
be  good,  and  I  can  manage  to  kill  time.  You'll 
want  to  take  along  some  spending  money,  father. 
Those  old  chums  of  yours  down  there  will  draw  you 
into  a  poker  game  sure." 

"I'll  cut  that  out,  I  reckon  " — the  Colonel  smiled 
in  spite  of  himself.  Langdon  was  such  a  copy  of 
what  he  had  been  at  the  same  age  that  it  seemed, 
under  stress  of  certain  memories,  almost  wrong  to 
reprove  him.  "No,  I've  sworn  off  from  cards,  and 
that's  one  thing  I  want  you  to  let  alone.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  of  your  having  any  more  of  those 
all-night  carouses  here,  leaving  bullet-holes  in  your 
grandfather's  portrait,  as  you  and  your  dissolute 
gang  did  the  last  time  I  was  away.  It's  a  wonder 
to  me  you  and  those  fellows  didn't  burn  the  house 
down." 

172 


Ann    Boyd 

At  this  juncture  Langdon  was  glad  to  see  the 
overseer  of  the  plantation  on  the  veranda,  and  the 
Colonel  went  out  to  give  him  some  instructions. 

Two  nights  later,  when  he  had  seen  his  father  off 
at  the  door  and  turned  back  into  the  great,  partly 
lighted  house,  Langdon  set  about  thinking  how  he 
could  spend  the  evening  and  rid  himself  of  the 
abiding  sense  of  loneliness  that  had  beset  him.  He 
might  stroll  over  to  Wilson's  store,  but  the  farmers 
he  met  there  would  be  far  from  congenial,  for  he 
was  not  popular  with  many  of  them,  and  unless  he 
could  meet,  which  was  unlikely  at  night,  some 
drummer  who  would  play  poker  freely  with  the 
funds  of  the  house  he  represented  against  Langdon's 
ready  promises  to  pay,  his  walk  would  be  fruitless. 
No,  he  would  not  go  to  the  store,  he  decided;  and 
still  he  was  in  no  mood,  at  so  early  an  hour,  for  the 
solitude  of  his  room  or  the  antiquated  library,  from 
the  shelves  of  which  frowned  the  puritanical  books 
of  his  Presbyterian  ancestors.  Irresolute,  he  had 
wandered  to  the  front  veranda  again,  and  as  he 
stood  looking  eastward  he  espied,  through  the  trees 
across  the  fields  and  meadows,  a  light.  It  was  Jane 
Hemingway's  kitchen  candle,  and  the  young  man's 
pulse  beat  more  rapidly  as  he  gazed  at  it.  He 
had  occasionally  seen  Virginia  outside  the  house  of 
evenings,  and  had  stolen  chats  with  her.  Perhaps 
he  might  have  such  luck  again.  In  any  case,  noth- 
ing would  be  lost  in  trying,  and  the  walk  would  kill 
time.  Besides,  he  was  sure  the  girl  was  beginning 
to  like  him ;  she  now  trusted  him  more,  and  seemed 
always  willing  to  talk  to  him.  She  believed  he 
loved  her;  who  could  doubt  it  when  he  himself  had 


Ann   Boyd 

been  surprised  at  his  tenderness  and  flights  of  elo- 
quence when  inspired  by  her  rare  beauty  and  sweet- 
ness? Sometimes  he  believed  that  his  feeling  for 
the  beautiful,  trustful  girl  was  a  love  that  would 
endure,  but  when  he  reflected  on  the  difference  in 
their  stations  in  life  he  had  grave  and  unmanly 
doubts.  As  he  walked  along  the  road,  the  light  of 
Jane's  candle,  like  the  glow  of  a  fire-fly,  intermittent- 
ly appearing  and  disappearing  ahead  of  him  through 
the  interstices  of  the  trees  and  foliage,  the  memory 
of  the  gossip  about  his  father  and  Ann  Boyd  flashed 
unpleasantly  upon  him.  Was  he,  after  all,  follow- 
ing his  parent's  early  bent?  Was  family  history  re- 
peating itself  ?  But  when  the  worst  was  said  about 
that  affair,  who  had  been  seriously  injured?  Cer- 
tainly not  the  easy-going  Colonel,  surely  not  the 
sturdy  pariah  herself,  who  had,  somehow,  turned 
her  enforced  isolation  to  such  purpose  that  she  was 
rich  in  the  world's  goods  and  to  all  appearances 
cared  not  a  rap  for  public  opinion. 

That  day  had  been  the  gloomiest  in  Virginia's 
life.  Early  in  the  morning  Jane  had  gone  to  Dar- 
ley  for  the  twentieth  time  to  try  to  borrow  the 
money  with  which  to  defray  her  expenses  to  Atlanta. 
She  had  failed  again,  and  came  home  at  dusk  abso- 
lutely dejected. 

"It's  all  up  with  me!"  she  groaned,  as  she  sank 
heavily  into  a  chair  in  front  of  the  cheerful  fire 
Virginia  had  in  readiness,  and  pushed  her  worn 
shoes  out  to  the  flames.  "  I  went  from  one  old 
friend  to  another,  telling  them  my  condition,  but 
they  seemed  actually  afraid  of  me,  treating  me  al- 


Ann    Boyd 

most  like  a  stranger.  They  all  told  tales  of  need, 
although  they  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  everything. 
Judge  Crane  met  me  in  Main  Street  and  told  me  I 
could  appeal  to  the  county  fund  and  get  on  the 
pauper  list,  but  without  offering  to  help  me;  he  said 
he  knew  I'd  almost  rather  die  than  fall  so  low.  No, 
I'll  not  do  that,  Virginia.  That's  what  would  tickle 
Ann  Boyd  and  some  others  powerfully." 

With  lagging  steps  and  a  heart  like  lead,  Virginia 
went  about  preparing  the  simple  meal.  Her  mother 
ate  only  hot  buttered  toast  with  boiled  milk  on  it 
to  soften  it  for  her  toothless  gums,  but  the  fair  cook 
scarcely  touched  food  at  all.  Her  mother's  grew- 
some  affliction  was  in  the  sensitive  girl's  mind  all 
through  each  successive  day,  and  even  at  night  her 
sleep  was  broken  by  intermittent  dreams  of  this 
or  that  opportunity  to  raise  the  coveted  money. 
Sometimes  it  was  the  jovial  face  of  a  crude,  penni- 
less neighbor  who  laughed  carelessly  as  he  handed 
her  a  cumbersome  roll  of  bank-bills ;  again  she  would 
find  a  great  heap  of  gold  glittering  in  the  sun,  only 
to  wake  with  her  delicate  fingers  tightly  clasped  on 
nothing  at  all — to  wake  that  she  might  lie  and  listen 
to  Jane's  sighs  and  moans  as  the  old  woman  crouched 
over  the  ash-buried  coals  to  light  a  tallow-dip  to 
look,  for  the  thousandth  time,  at  the  angry  threat 
of  fate  upon  her  withered  breast. 

To-night,  greatly  wearied  by  her  long  ride  and  be- 
ing on  her  feet  so  long,  Jane  went  to  bed  early,  and, 
when  she  was  alone,  Virginia,  with  a  mental  depres- 
sion that  had  become  almost  physical  pain,  went  out 
and  sat  on  the  front  door-step  in  the  moonlight.  That 
very  day  a  plan  of  her  own  in  regard  to  the  raising 


Ann   Boyd 

of  the  money  had  fallen  to  earth.  She  had  heard 
of  the  munificent  gift  Luke  King  had  made  to  his 
mother,  and  she  determined  that  she  would  go  to 
him,  lay  the  case  before  him,  and  pledge  herself  to 
toil  for  him  in  any  capacity  till  he  was  repaid ;  but 
when  she  had  gone  as  far  in  the  direction  of  the 
newly  purchased  farm  as  the  Hincock  Spring,  she 
met  Mary  Bruce  in  a  new  dress  and  hat,  and  in- 
directly discovered  that  King  had  given  up  his  last 
dollar  of  ready  money  to  secure  the  property  for  his 
people.  No,  she  would  not  take  her  own  filial 
troubles  to  a  young  man  who  was  so  nobly  battling 
with  his  own.  At  any  other  moment  she  might 
have  had  time  to  admire  King's  sacrifice,  but  her 
mind  was  too  full  of  her  own  depressing  problem  to 
give  thought  to  that  of  another.  Her  sharp  reproof 
to  him  for  his  neglect  of  his  mother  during  his  ab- 
sence in  the  West  flitted  through  her  memory,  and 
at  a  less  troubled  moment  she  would  have  seen  how 
ridiculously  unjust  her  childish  words  must  have 
sounded. 

As  she  sat,  weighted  down  with  these  things,  she 
heard  a  step  down  the  road.  It  was  slow  and 
leisured,  if  not  deliberately  cautious.  It  was  ac- 
companied by  a  persistent  spark  of  fire  which  flitted 
always  on  a  straight  line,  in  view  and  out,  among 
the  low  bushes  growing  close  to  the  fence  along  the 
roadside.  A  moment  later  a  handsome  face  in  the 
flare  of  a  burning  cigar  appeared,  smiling  confident- 
ly at  the  gate.  It  was  Langdon  Chester. 

"Come  out  here,"  he  said,  in  a  soft,  guarded 
voice.  "  I  want  to  see  you." 

Virginia  rose,  listened  to  ascertain  if  her  mother 

176 


Ann    Boyd 

was  still  asleep,  and  then,  drawing  her  light  shawl 
about  her  shoulders,  she  went  to  the  fence.  He 
reached  over  the  gate  and  took  her  hand  and  pressed 
it  warmly.  "  I  was  awfully  afraid  I'd  not  see  you," 
he  said.  "I've  failed  so  many  times.  My  father 
left  to-day,  and  I  am  very  lonely  in  that  big  house 
with  not  a  soul  nearer  than  the  negro-quarter." 

"It  must  be  lonely,"  Virginia  said,  trying  to  be 
pleasant  and  to  throw  off  her  despondency. 

"Your  mother  went  to  town  to-day,  didn't  she?" 
Chester  pursued,  still  holding  the  hand  which  showed 
an  indifferent  inclination  to  quit  his  clasp.  "  I 
think  I  saw  her  coming  back.  Did  she  get  what 
she  went  for?" 

"No,  she  failed  utterly,"  Virginia  sighed.  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  She's  suffering  awfully — 
not  in  bodily  pain,  you  know,  for  there  is  none  at 
all,  but  in  the  constant  and  morbid  fear  of  death. 
It  is  an  awful  thing  to  be  face  to  face,  day  after  day, 
night  after  night,  with  a  mother  who  is  in  such 
agony.  I  never  dreamed  such  a  fate  could  be  in 
store  for  any  young  girl.  It  is  actually  driving  me 
crazy." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Langdon  said,  hesitatingly.  "  I  want 
to  tell  you  something.  I  had  a  talk  with  my  father 
about  her  just  before  he  left.  I've  worried  over  it, 
too,  little  girl.  Folks  may  run  me  down,  you  know, 
but  I've  got  real  feelings;  and  so,  as  a  last  resort,  as 
I  say,  I  told  him  about  it.  He's  hard  up  himself, 
as  you  may  know,  along  with  our  heavy  family  ex- 
penses, and  interest  on  debts,  and  taxes,  but  I  man- 
aged to  put  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  get  him  inter- 
ested, and  he's  promised  to  let  me  have  the  money 

177 


Ann  Boyd 

provided  he  can  make  a  certain  deal  down  at  Sa- 
vannah. But  he  says  it  must  be  kept  absolutely 
quiet,  you  understand.  If  he  sends  me  this  money, 
you  must  not  speak  of  it  to  any  one — the  old  man 
is  very  peculiar." 

Virginia's  heart  bounded,  the  hot  blood  of  a  daz- 
zling new  hope  pulsed  madly  in  her  veins.  The 
tensity  of  her  hand  in  his  warm  clasp  relaxed;  her 
eyes,  into  which  his  own  passionate  ones  were  melt- 
ing, held  kindling  fires  of  gratitude  and  trust. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  she  cried,  "if  he  only  would!" 

"Well,  there  is  a  splendid  chance  of  his  doing  it," 
Langdon  said.  "I  was  awfully  afraid  to  mention 
the  subject  to  him,  you  know,  for  fear  that  he  would 
suspect  my  interest  was  wholly  due  to  you,  but  it 
happens  that  he  has  never  seen  us  together,  and  so 
he  thought  it  was  simply  my  sympathy  for  one  of 
our  neighbors.  I  had  to  do  something,  Virginia. 
I  couldn't  stay  idle  when  my  beautiful  little  sweet- 
heart was  in  such  downright  trouble." 

With  a  furtive  glance  towards  the  house  and  up 
and  down  the  road,  Langdon  drew  her  towards  him. 
Just  one  instant  she  resisted,  and  then,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  without 
open  protest.  She  remained  thus  close  to  him, 
permitting  him  to  stroke  her  soft,  rounded  cheeks 
gently.  Never  before  were  two  persons  impelled 
by  diverse  forces  so  closely  united. 

"When  do  you  —  you  think  your  father  will 
write?"  she  asked,  her  voice  low,  her  soul  almost 
shrieking  in  joy. 

"That  depends,"  said  Chester.  "You  see,  he 
may  not  get  at  the  matter  the  very  day  he  arrives 

178 


Ann    Boyd 

in  Savannah,  for  he  is  a  great  old  codger  to  let 
matters  slide  in  the  background  while  he  is  meeting 
old  friends.  But,  little  girl,  I  don't  intend  to  let  it 
slip  out  of  his  mind.  I'll  drop  him  a  line  and  urge 
him  to  fix  it  up  if  possible.  That,  I  think,  will  bring 
him  around.  Your  mother  is  sound  asleep,"  he 
added,  seductively;  "let's  walk  a  little  way  down 
the  road.  I  sha'n't  keep  you  long.  I  feel  awfully 
happy  with  you  all  to  myself." 

She  raised  no  objection  as  he  unfastened  the 
latch  of  the  gate  with  deft,  noiseless  ringers  and, 
smiling  playfully,  drew  her  after  him  and  silently 
closed  the  opening. 

"Now,  this  is  more  like  it,"  he  said.  "Lovers 
should  have  the  starry  skies  above  them  and  open 
fields  about.  Forget  your  mother  a  little  while, 
Virginia.  It  will  all  come  out  right,  and  you  and 
I  will  be  the  happiest  people  in  the  world.  Great 
Heavens !  how  perfectly  lovely  you  are  in  the  moon- 
light !  You  look  like  a  statue  of  Venus  waking  to  life. ' ' 

They  had  reached  the  brook  which  rippled  on 
brown  stones  across  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the 
slight  rise  on  which  the  cottage  stood,  when  they 
saw  some  one  approaching.  It  was  Ann  Boyd  driv- 
ing her  cow  home,  her  heavy  skirts  pinned  up  half- 
way to  her  stout  knees.  With  one  sharp,  steady 
stare  at  them,  Ann,  without  greeting  of  any  kind, 
lowered  her  bare,  dew-damp  head  and  trudged  on. 

"It's  that  miserly  old  hag,  Ann  Boyd,"  Langdon 
said,  lightly.  "I  don't  like  her  any  more  than  she 
does  me.  I  reckon  that  old  woman  has  circulated 
more  lies  about  me  than  all  the  rest  of  the  country 
put  together." 

179 


Ann   Boyd 

At  the  first  sight  of  Ann,  Virginia  had  withdrawn 
her  hand  from  Langdon's  arm  and  passionate  clasp 
of  fingers,  but  the  action  had  not  escaped  Ann's 
lynx  eyes. 

"It's  coming,  thank  God,  it's  coming  as  fast  as  a 
dog  can  trot!"  she  chuckled  as  she  plodded  along 
after  her  waddling  cow.  "  Now,  Jane  Hemingway, 
you'll  have  something  else  to  bother  about  besides 
your  blasted  cancer — something  that  will  cut  your 
pride  as  deep  as  that  does  your  selfish  flesh.  It 
won't  fail  to  come,  either.  Don't  I  know  the 
Chester  method?  Huh,  if  I  don't,  it  isn't  known. 
With  his  head  bent  that  way,  and  holding  her  hand 
with  hand  and  arm  both  at  once,  he  might  have  been 
his  father  over  again.  Huh,  I  felt  like  tearing  his 
eyes  out,  just  now — the  young  beast!  I  felt  like 
she  was  me,  and  the  old  brink  was  yawning  again 
right  at  my  feet.  Huh,  I  felt  that  way  about  Jane 
Hemingway's  daughter — that's  the  oddest  thing  of 
all!  But  she  is  beautiful;  she's  the  prettiest  thing 
I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life.  No  wonder  he  is  after 
her;  she's  the  greatest  prize  for  a  Chester  in  Geor- 
gia. Jane's  asleep  right  now,  but  she'll  wake  be- 
fore long  and  she'll  wonder  with  all  her  wounded 
pride  how  God  ever  let  her  close  her  eyes.  Yes, 
my  revenge  is  on  the  way.  I  see  the  light  its 
blaze  has  cast  on  ahead.  It  may  be  Old  Nick's 
torch — what  do  I  care  ?  He  can  wave  it,  wave  it, 
wave  it!" 

She  increased  her  step  till  she  overtook  her  cow. 
Laying  her  hand  on  the  animal's  back,  she  gently 
patted  it.  "Go  on  home  to  your  calf,  you  hussy," 
she  laughed.  "  The  young  of  even  your  sort  is  safer, 

1 80 


Ann     Boyd 

according  to  the  plan  that  guides  the  world,  than 
Jane  Hemingway's.  She's  felt  so  safe,  too,  that 
she's  made  it  her  prime  object  in  life  to  devil  a  per- 
son for  exactly  what's  coming  under  her  own  roof — 
exactly  to  a  gnat's  heel!" 


XIX 

[NE  evening,  about  four  days  later, 
Mrs.  Way  croft  hurried  in  to  see  Ann. 
The  sharp  -  sighted  woman,  as  she 
nodded  indifferently  to  the  visitor,  and 
continued  her  work  of  raking  live  coals 
under  a  three-legged  pot  on  the  hearth,  saw  that 
Mrs.  Waycroft  was  the  fluttering  bearer  of  news  of 
some  sort,  but  she  made  no  show  of  being  ready  to 
listen  to  it.  The  widow,  however,  had  come  to  be 
heard,  she  had  come  for  the  sheer  enjoyment  of 
recital. 

"Ann,"  she  panted,  "let  that  oven  alone  and  lis- 
ten to  me.  I've  got  about  the  biggest  piece  of  news 
that  has  come  your  way  in  many  a  long  day." 

"  You  say  you  have  ?"  Ann's  brass-handled  poker 
rang  as  she  gave  a  parting  thrust  at  a  burning 
chunk,  and  struck  the  leg  of  the  pot. 

"Yes,  and  I  dropped  on  to  it  by  the  barest  ac- 
cident. About  an  hour  after  sunset  to-day,  I  was 
in  the  graveyard,  sitting  over  Jennie's  grave,  and 
planning  how  to  place  the  new  stones.  I  looked  at 
the  spot  where  I'd  been  sitting  afterwards,  and  saw 
that  it  was  well  sheltered  with  thick  vines.  I  was 
completely  covered  from  the  sight  of  anybody  pass- 
ing along  the  road.  Well,  as  I  was  sitting  there 
kind  o'  tired  from  my  work  and  the  walk,  I  heard  a 

182 


Ann    Boyd 

man's  voice  and  a  woman's.  It  was  Langdon 
Chester  and  Virginia  Hemingway.  He  seemed  to 
be  doing  most  of  the  talking,  and  since  God  made 
me,  I  never  heard  such  tender  love-making  since  I 
was  born.  I  knew  I  had  no  business  to  listen,  but 
I  just  couldn't  help  it.  It  took  me  back  to  the 
time  I  was  a  girl  and  used  to  imagine  that  some 
fine  young  man  was  coming  to  talk  to  me  that  way 
and  offer  me  a  happy  home  and  all  heart  could  de- 
sire. I  never  dreamed  such  tender  words  could  fall 
from  a  man's  tongue.  I  tried  to  see  Virginia's  face, 
but  couldn't.  He  went  on  to  say  that  his  folks  was 
to  know  nothing  at  present  about  him  and  her,  but 
that  everything  would  finally  be  satisfactorily  ar- 
ranged." 

"  Huh,  I  reckon  so!"  Ann  ejaculated,  off  her  usual 
guard,  and  then  she  lapsed  into  discreet  silence  again. 

"But  I  got  on  to  the  biggest  secret  of  all,"  Mrs. 
Waycroft  continued.  "It  seems  that  Langdon  has 
been  talking  in  a  roundabout  way  to  his  father 
about  Jane's  sad  plight,  and  that  Colonel  Chester 
had  agreed  to  send  the  money  for  the  operation  from 
Savannah." 

"Huh!  he's  got  no  money  to  give  away,"  slipped 
again  from  Ann's  too  facile  lips,  "  and  if  he  did  have 
it,  he  wouldn't — " 

"Well,  that  may  be,  or  it  may  not,"  said  Mrs. 
Waycroft;  "but  Langdon  said  he  wasn't  going  to 
wait  for  the  check.  He  said  a  man  in  Barley  had 
been  bantering  him  for  a  long  time  to  buy  his  fine 
horse,  Prince,  and  as  he  didn't  care  to  keep  the 
animal,  he  had  sent  him  by  one  of  the  negroes  on 
the  place  this  morning." 

183 


Ann   Boyd 

"Oh,  he  did  that!"  Ann  panted.  She  carefully 
leaned  the  poker  against  the  jamb  of  the  fireplace 
and  sat  staring,  her  rugged  face  working  under 
stress  of  deep  and  far-reaching  thought. 

"  So  I  heard  him  say  as  plainly  as  you  and  me 
are  talking  right  now.  He  said  the  negro  couldn't 
possibly  make  the  transfer  and  get  back  with  the 
money  till  about  ten  o'clock  to-night.  And  that, 
to  me,  Ann — just  between  us  two,  was  the  oddest 
thing  of  all.  For  he  was  begging  her  to  slip  away 
from  home  at  that  hour  and  come  to  his  house  for 
the  money,  so  she  could  surprise  her  ma  with  it  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"He  was,  was  he?  huh!"  Ann  rose  and  went  to 
the  door  and  looked  out.  There  she  stood  stroking 
her  set  face  with  a  steady  hand.  She  was  tingling 
with  excitement  and  trying  to  hide  it.  Then  she 
turned  back  and  bent  low  to  look  at  the  coals 
under  her  pot.  "Well,  I  reckon  she  was  willing 
to  grant  a  little  favor  like  that  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"  She  had  to  be  begged  powerful,"  said  the  visitor. 
"I  never  in  all  my  life  heard  such  pleading.  Part 
of  the  time  he'd  scold  her  and  reproach  her  with  not 
caring  for  him  like  he  did  for  her.  Then  he'd  accuse 
her  of  being  suspicious  of  him,  even  when  he  was 
trying  his  level  best  to  help  her  out  of  trouble. 
Finally,  he  got  to  talking  about  how  folks  died,  slow- 
like,  from  cancers,  and  what  her  real  duty  was  to 
her  mother.  It  was  then  that  she  give  in.  I  know 
she  did,  though  I  didn't  hear  what  she  said,  for  he 
laughed  out  sudden,  and  gladlike,  and  I  heard  him 
kiss  her  and  begin  over  again,  about  how  happy 

184 


Ann  Boyd 

they  were  going  to  be  and  the  like.     I  reckon,  Ann, 
he  really  does  mean  to  marry  her." 

"I  reckon  so,"  Ann  said.  "I  reckon  so.  Such 
things  have  been  known  to  happen." 

"Well,  we'll  wait  and  see  what  conies  of  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Waycroft.  "  Anyway,  Jane  will  get  her  cancer- 
money,  and  that's  all  she  cares  for.  They  say  she's 
in  agony  day  and  night,  driving  Virginia  distracted. 
I'm  sorry  for  that  pore  little  thing.  I  don't  like  her 
mammy,  for  treating  you  as  she  has  so  long  and 
persistent,  but  I  can't  hold  Virginia  accountable." 

Ann  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders.  There  was 
a  twinkling  light  of  dawning  triumph  in  each  of  her 
non-committal  eyes,  and  unwonted  color  in  her 
cheeks,  all  of  which  escaped  the  widow's  notice. 

"Well,  that  wasn't  the  end,"  she  said,  tenta- 
tively. 

"I  couldn't  hear  any  more,  Ann.  They  walked 
on.  I  stood  up  and  watched  them  as  they  went  on 
through  the  bushes,  arm  in  arm,  towards  her  home. 
I  'm  sure  he  loves  her.  Anybody  would  know  it  that 
heard  him  talk;  besides  she  is  pretty — you  know 
that,  Ann.  She  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  have 
ever  seen  anywhere.  They  looked  fine,  too,  walk- 
ing side  by  side.  They  say  he's  a  spendthrift  and 
got  bad  habits,  but  maybe  his  folks  will  be  glad  to 
have  him  settle  down  with  such  a  sensible  girl  if  she 
is  poor.  She'll  keep  him  straight.  I'd  rather  noth- 
ing is  said  about  where  Jane's  money  is  coming  from, 
Ann.  That  seems  to  be  their  secret,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  circulate  it." 

"I'll  not  talk  it,"  Ann  said.  "It  will  be  safe 
with  me." 

13  185 


Ann   Boyd 

When  the  widow  had  left,  Ann  became  a  changed 
creature  in  outward  appearance.  She  stood  on  the 
porch  till  her  guest  had  disappeared  in  the  dusk,  and 
then  she  paced  the  floor  of  her  sitting-room  in  a 
spasm  of  ecstasy,  now  and  then  shaken  by  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"I  see  through  him,"  she  chuckled.  "He  is  try- 
ing to  ease  his  dirty  conscience  by  paying  money 
down.  It's  a  slick  trick — on  a  par  with  a  promise 
to  marry.  He's  telling  his  filthy  soul  that  he's  sav- 
ing her  mother's  life.  The  girl's  as  blind  as  a  bat — 
the  average  woman  can  only  see  one  thing  at  a  time ; 
she's  simply  bent  on  getting  that  money,  and  thinks 
of  nothing  else.  But,  Jane  Hemingway — old  lady — 
I've  got  you  where  I  want  you  at  last.  It  won't  be 
long  before  your  forked  tongue  will  be  tied  fast  in  a 
knot.  You  can't  keep  on  after  me  publicly  for 
what  is  in  your  own  dirty  flesh.  And  when  you 
know  the  truth  you'll  know,  too,  that  it  all  come 
about  to  save  your  worthless  life.  You'll  get  down 
on  your  knees  then  and  beg  the  Lord  to  have 
mercy  on  you.  Maybe  you'll  remember  all  you've 
done  against  me  from  your  girl-days  till  now  as  you 
set  with  your  legs  dangling  in  the  grave.  Folks  will 
shun  your  house,  too,  unless  you  rid  it  of  contagion. 
But  you  bet  I'll  call.  I'll  send  in  my  card.  Me'n' 
you'll  be  on  a  level  then,  and  we'll  owe  it  to  the 
self -same  high  and  mighty  source." 

Ann  suddenly  felt  a  desire  for  the  open  air,  as  if 
the  very  walls  of  her  house  checked  the  pleasurable 
out-pourings  of  her  triumph,  and  she  went  outside 
and  strode  up  and  down  in  the  yard,  fairly  aflame 
with  joy.  All  at  once  she  paused;  she  was  con- 

186 


Ann    Boyd 

fronting  the  sudden  fear  that  she  might  be  fired  by 
a  false  hope.  Virginia,  it  was  true,  had  agreed  to 
go  to  Chester's  at  the  appointed  hour,  but  might 
she  not,  in  calmer  moments,  when  removed  from 
Langdon's  persistent  influence,  think  better  of  it 
and  stay  at  home?  Ah,  yes,  there  was  the  chance 
that  the  girl  might  fail  to  keep  the  appointment, 
and  then — • 

Cold  from  head  to  foot,  Ann  went  back  into  the 
cottage  and  stood  before  the  fire  looking  at  the 
clock.  It  was  fifteen  minutes  of  ten,  and  ten  was 
the  hour.  Why  not  make  sure  of  the  outcome? 
Why  not,  indeed?  It  was  a  good  idea,  and  would 
save  her  days  and  days  of  suspense. 

Going  out,  Ann  trudged  across  the  dewy  meadow, 
her  coarse  skirt  clutched  in  her  hands  till  she  stood 
in  one  of  the  brier-grown  fence-corners  near  the 
main  road.  Here,  quite  hidden  from  the  open  view 
of  any  one  passing,  by  the  shade  of  a  young  mul- 
berry-tree, whose  boughs  hung  over  her  like  the  ribs 
of  an  umbrella,  she  stood  and  waited.  She  must 
have  been  there  ten  minutes  or  more,  her  tense  gaze 
on  the  road  leading  to  Jane  Hemingway's  cottage, 
when  she  was  sure  she  heard  soft  footsteps  coming 
towards  her.  Yes,  it  was  some  one,  but  could  it 
be —  ?  It  was  a  woman's  figure ;  she  could  see  that 
already,  and,  yes,  there  could  be  no  mistake  now — • 
it  was  Virginia.  There  was  no  one  in  the  neighbor- 
hood quite  so  slight,  light  of  foot,  and  erect.  Ann 
suddenly  crouched  down  till  she  could  peer  between 
the  lower  rails  of  the  fence.  She  held  her  breath 
while  the  girl  was  passing,  then  she  clasped  her 
hands  over  her  knees  and  chuckled.  "It's  her!" 

187 


Ann    Boyd 

she  whispered.  "It's  her,  and  she's  headed  for 
everlasting  doom  if  ever  a  creature  walked  into  a 
net  of  damnation." 

When  Virginia  was  thirty  or  forty  yards  away, 
Ann  cautiously  climbed  over  the  fence,  almost 
swearing  in  impatience  as  she  pulled  her  skirts  from 
the  detaining  clutch  of  thorns,  briers,  and  splinters, 
and  with  her  head  down  she  followed. 

"I'll  make  dead  sure,"  she  said,  between  pressed 
lips.  "This  is  a  matter  I  don't  want  to  have  a 
shadow  of  a  doubt  about." 

Presently,  the  long,  white  palings  comprising  the 
front  fence  at  the  Chesters'  appeared  into  view,  and 
the  dark,  moving  figure  of  the  girl  outlined  against 
it  could  be  seen  more  clearly. 

Virginia  moved  onward  till  she  had  reached  the 
gate.  The  smooth,  steel  latch  clicked;  there  was 
a  rip  of  darkness  in  the  ribbon  of  white ;  the  hinges 
creaked;  the  gate  closed  with  a  slam,  as  if  it  had 
slipped  from  nerveless  fingers,  and  the  tall  box- 
wood bordering  the  walk  to  the  door  of  the  old 
house  swallowed  Virginia  from  the  sight  of  her  grim 
pursuer. 

"That  will  do  me,"  Ann  chuckled,  as  she  turned 
back,  warm  with  content  in  every  vein.  On  her 
rapid  walk  to  her  house  she  allowed  her  fancy  to 
play  upon  scores  of  situations  in  which  the  happen- 
ing of  that  night  would  bring  dire  humiliation  and 
shame  to  her  enemy.  Ann  well  knew  what  was 
coming;  she  had  only  to  hold  the  album  of  her 
own  life  open  and  let  the  breeze  of  chance  turn  the 
pages  to  view  what  Jane  Hemingway  was  to  look 
upon  later. 

1 88 


XX 


had  just  closed  her  gate,  and  was 
turning  towards   her  door,   when  she 
heard  a  sound  on  the  porch,   and  a 
man  stepped  down  into  the  yard.     It 
,was  Luke  King. 

"Why,  hello,  Aunt  Ann!"  he  cried  out,  cheerily. 
"Been  driving  hogs  out  of  your  field  I'll  bet.  You 
need  me  here  with  my  dog  Pomp,  who  used  to  be 
such  a  dandy  at  that  job." 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Luke!"  Ann  cried,  trying  to  col- 
lect herself,  after  the  start  he  had  given  her. 

"Yes,  I  didn't  mean  to  come  at  this  hour  of  night, 
but  as  I  was  riding  by  just  now,  on  my  way  home 
to  see  my  mother,  who  is  not  exactly  well,  I  noticed 
your  door  open,  and  not  seeing  you  in  sight,  I  hitched 
my  horse  up  the  road  a  piece  and  came  back  and 
watched  at  the  gate.  Then  not  hearing  any  sound, 
and  knowing  you  never  go  to  bed  with  your  door 
open,  I  went  in.  Then  you  bet  I  was  scared. 
Things  do  once  in  a  while  happen  here  in  the  moun- 
tains, and — " 

"Oh,  well,  nothing  was  the  matter  with  me," 
Ann  smiled.  "'Besides,  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self." 

"I  know  that,  too,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  to  get 
this  chance  to  talk  to  you.  I  understand  that 

189 


Ann   Boyd 

mother  is  not  as  ill  as  they  thought  she  was,  and 
I'll  have  to  catch  the  first  train  back  to  Atlanta  in 
the  morning.  I'm  doing  pretty  well  down  there, 
Aunt  Ann." 

"I  know  it,  Luke,  and  I'm  glad,"  Ann  said,  her 
mind  still  on  the  things  she  had  just  witnessed. 

"  But  you  haven't  yet  forgiven  me  for  giving  my 
people  that  farm.  I  can  see  that  by  your  manner." 

"I  thought  it  was  foolish,"  she  replied. 

"But  that's  because  you  simply  don't  know  all 
about  it,  Aunt  Ann,"  he  insisted.  "I  don't  want 
to  make  you  mad  again ;  but  really  I  would  do  that 
thing  over  again  and  again.  It  has  helped  me  more 
than  anything  I  ever  did.  You  see,  you've  been 
thinking  on  one  line  all  your  life  and,  of  late  years, 
I  have  been  on  quite  another.  You  are  a  great 
woman,  Aunt  Ann,  but  you  still  believe  that  the 
only  way  to  fight  is  to  hit  back.  You  have  been 
hitting  back  for  years,  and  may  keep  on  at  it  for  a 
while,  but  you'll  see  the  truth  one  of  these  days, 
and  you'll  actually  love  your  neighbors — even  your 
vilest  enemies.  You'll  come  to  see — your  big  brain 
will  simply  have  to  grasp  it — that  your  retaliation, 
being  obedient  to  bad  life-laws,  is  as  blamable  as 
the  antagonism  of  your  enemies.  The  time  will 
come  when  your  very  suffering  will  be  the  medium 
through  which  you  will  view  and  pity  their  sordid 
narrowness.  Then  you'll  appear  to  them  in  their 
long  darkness  as  a  blazing  light;  they  will  look  up 
to  you  as  a  thing  divine;  they  will  fall  blinded  at 
your  feet;  they  will  see  your  soul  as  it  has  always 
been,  pure  white  and  dazzlingly  bright,  and  look 
upon  you  as  the  very  impersonation  of — " 

190 


Ann    Boyd 

"Huh,  don't  be  a  fool!"  Ann  sank  on  the  edge 
of  the  porch,  her  eyes  fixed  angrily  on  the  ground. 
"You  are  ignorant  of  what  you  are  talking  about — 
as  ignorant  as  a  new-born  baby.  You  are  a  silly 
dreamer,  boy.  Your  life  is  an  easy,  flowery  one, 
and  you  can't  look  into  a  dark,  rugged  one  like 
mine.  If  God  is  at  the  head  of  all  things,  he  put 
evil  here  as  well  as  the  good,  and  to-night  I'm 
thankful  for  the  evil.  I'm  tasting  it,  I  tell  you,  and 
it's  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!" 

"Ah,  I  know,"  King  sighed.  "You  are  trying 
to  make  yourself  believe  you  are  glad  Mrs.  Heming- 
way is  in  such  agony  over  her  affliction." 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  her  affliction." 
Ann  stared  half  fearfully  into  his  honest  face. 

"But  I  know  you  well  enough  to  see  that's  what 
you  are  driving  at."  King  sat  down  beside  her, 
and  for  a  moment  rested  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"But  it's  got  to  end.  It  shall  not  go  on.  I  am 
talking  to  you,  Aunt  Ann,  with  the  voice  of  the 
New  Thought  that  is  sweeping  the  face  of  the  world 
to-day — only  that  mountain  in  the  east  and  that  one 
in  the  west  have  dammed  its  flow  and  kept  it  from 
this  benighted  valley.  I  did  not  intend  yet  to  tell 
you  the  great  overwhelming  secret  of  my  life,  but  I 
want  to  do  it  to-night.  You  love  me  as  a  son.  I 
know  that,  and  I  love  you  as  a  mother.  You  are 
in  a  corner — in  the  tightest  place  you've  ever  been 
in  in  all  your  life.  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do 
something  for  my  sake  that  will  tear  your  very 
soul  out  by  the  roots.  You'll  have  to  grant  my 
wish  or  refuse — if  you  refuse,  I  shall  be  miserable 
for  life." 

191 


Ann    Boyd 

"Luke,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Ann 
shook  his  hand  from  its  resting-place  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  with  bated  breath  leaned  towards  him. 

King  was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  brows  drawn 
together,  his  head  lowered,  his  strong,  manly  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees.  A  buggy  passed  along 
the  road.  In  it  sat  Fred  Masters  and  another  man. 
Both  were  smoking  and  talking  loudly. 

"Well,  listen,  and  don't  break  in,  Aunt  Ann," 
King  said,  in  a  calm,  steady  voice.  "I'm  going  to 
tell  you  something  you  don't  yet  know.  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  of  my  first  and  only  great  love." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  Ann  took  a  deep  breath  of  re- 
lief. "You've  been  roped  in  down  there  already, 
eh?  Well,  I  thought  that  would  come,  my  boy, 
with  the  papers  full  of  you  and  your  work." 

"Wait,  I  told  you  not  to  break  in,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  believe  I'm  a  shallow  man.  To  me  the  right 
kind  of  love  is  as  eternal  as  the  stars,  and  every  bit 
as  majestic.  Mine,  Aunt  Ann,  began  years  ago, 
here  in  the  mountains,  on  the  banks  of  these  streams, 
in  the  shadow  of  these  green  hills.  I  loved  her  when 
she  was  a  child.  I  went  far  off  and  met  women  of 
all  sorts  and  ranks,  and  in  their  blank  faces  I  always 
saw  the  soulful  features  of  my  child  sweetheart.  I 
came  back  here— here,  do  you  understand,  to  find 
her  the  loveliest  full-grown  human  flower  that  ever 
bloomed  in  God's  spiritual  sunshine." 

' '  You  mean — great  God,  you  mean —  ?  Look  here, 
Luke  King."  Ann  drew  her  body  erect,  her  eyes 
were  flashing  fire.  "Don't  tell  me  it  is  Virginia 
Hemingway.  Don't,  don't — ' 

"That's  who  it  is,  and  no  one  else  this  side  of 

192 


Ann   Boyd 

heaven!"  he  cried,  in  an  impassioned  voice.  "That's 
who  it  is,  and  if  I  lose  her — if  I  lose  her  my  life  will 
be  a  total  failure.  I  could  never  rise  above  it, 
never!" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  long,  steady  stare. 

"You  love  that  girl!"  Ann  gasped;  "that  girl!" 

"With  all  my  soul  and  body,"  he  answered,  fer- 
vidly. "Life,  work,  success,  power,  nothing  under 
high  heaven  can  knock  it  out  of  me.  She  has  got 
to  be  mine,  and  you  must  never  interfere,  either. 
I  love  you  as  a  son  loves  his  mother,  and  you  must 
not  take  her  from  me.  You  must  do  more — you 
must  help  me.  I've  never  asked  many  things  of 
you.  I  ask  only  this  one — give  her  to  me,  help  me 
to  win  her.  That's  all.  Now  we  understand  each 
other.  She's  the  whole  world  to  me.  She's  young; 
she  may  be  thoughtless;  her  final  character  is  just 
forming;  but  she  is  destined  to  be  the  grandest, 
loveliest  woman  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  She  is  to 
be  my  wife,  Aunt  Ann — my  wife  /" 

Ann's  head  sank  till  her  massive  brow  touched 
her  crossed  arms ;  he  could  see  that  she  was  quiver- 
ing from  head  to  foot.  There  was  a  long  pause, 
then  the  woman  looked  up,  faint  defiance  strug- 
gling in  her  face. 

"You  are  a  fool,"  she  said.  "A  great,  big,  whim- 
pering fool  of  a  man.  She's  the  only  one,  eh  ?  Jane 
Hemingway's  daughter  is  an  angel  on  earth,  above 
all  the  rest.  Huh!  and  just  because  of  her  pretty 
face  and  slim  body  and  high  head.  Huh,  oh,  you 
are  a  fool — an  idiot,  if  there  ever  was  one!" 

"Stop,  talk  sense,  if  you  will  talk,"  he  said,  stern- 
ly, his  eyes  flashing.  "  Don't  begin  to  run  her  down. 


Ann    Boyd 

I  won't  stand  it.  I  know  what  she  is.  I  know  she 
was  made  for  me!" 

"She's  not  a  whit  better  than  the  average,"  Ann 
retorted,  her  fierce  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  "She's 
as  weak  as  any  of  the  rest.  Do  you  know — do  you 
know — "  Ann  looked  away  from  him.  "Do  you 
know  Langdon  Chester  has  his  eye  on  her,  that  he 
is  following  her  everywhere,  meeting  her  unbe- 
knownst to  her  old  mammy?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  too,"  King  surprised  her  with 
the  statement;  "and  between  you  and  me,  that  as 
much  as  my  mother's  sickness  made  me  lay  down 
my  work  and  come  up  here  to-night.  It  is  the 
crisis  of  my  whole  life.  She  is  at  the  turning-point 
of  hers,  just  as  you  were  at  yours  when  you  were 
a  young  and  happy  girl.  She  might  listen  to  him, 
and  love  him;  it  is  as  natural  for  her  to  believe  in 
a  well-acted  lie,  as  it  is  for  her  to  be  good  and  pure. 
Listen  and  don't  get  mad — the  grandest  woman  I 
ever  knew  once  trusted  in  falseness,  and  suffered. 
Virginia  might,  too;  she  might  enter  the  life-dark- 
ness that  you  were  led  into  by  sheer  faith  in  man- 
kind, and  have  a  life  of  sorrow  before  her.  But  if 
it  should  happen,  Aunt  Ann,  my  career  in  the  right 
way  would  end." 

"You  wouldn't  let  a — a  thing  like  that — "  Ann 
began,  anxiously,  "a  thing  like  that  ruin  your  whole 
life,  when — ' 

"Wouldn't  I?  You  don't  know  me.  These  two 
hands  would  be  dyed  to  the  bone  with  the  slow 
death-blood  of  a  certain  human  being,  and  I  would 
go  to  the  gallows  with  both  a  smile  and  a  curse. 
That's  why  it's  my  crisis.  I  don't  know  how  far  it 

194 


Ann    Boyd 

has  gone.  I  only  know  that  I  want  to  save  her 
from — yes,  from  what  you've  been  through,  and 
lay  my  life  and  energy  at  her  feet." 

"Jane  Hemingway's  daughter!"  Ann  Boyd  groaned. 

"Yes,  Jane  Hemingway's  daughter.  You  hate 
her,  I  know,  with  the  unreasonable  hatred  that 
comes  from  despising  her  mother,  but  you've  got 
to  help  me,  Aunt  Ann.  You  put  me  where  I  am, 
in  education  and  standing,  and  you  must  not  see 
me  pulled  down." 

"How  could  I  help  you,  even  —  even  —  oh,  you 
don't  know,  you  don't  know  that  at  this  very 
minute — " 

"Oh  yes,  he  may  be  with  her  right  now,  for  all 
I  know,"  King  broke  in,  passionately.  "He  may 
be  pouring  his  lies  into  her  confiding  ear  at  this  very 
minute,  as  you  say,  but  Fate  would  not  be  cruel 
enough  to  let  them  harm  her.  You  must  see  her, 
Aunt  Ann.  For  my  sake,  you  must  see  her.  You 
will  know  what  to  say.  One  word  from  you  would 
open  her  eyes,  when  from  me  it  would  be  an  offence. 
She  would  know  that  you  knew ;  it  would  shock  her 
to  her  very  soul,  but  it  would — if  she's  actually  in 
danger — save  her ;  I  know  her  well  enough  for  that ; 
it  would  save  her." 

"You  are  asking  too  much  of  me,  Luke,"  Ann 
groaned,  almost  in  piteous  appeal.  "  I  can't  do  it — 
I  just  can't!" 

"Yes,  you  will,"  King  said.  "You  have  got  a 
grand  soul  asleep  under  that  crust  of  sordid  hatred 
and  enmity,  and  it  will  awake,  now  that  I  have  laid 
bare  my  heart.  You,  knowing  the  grim  penalty  of 
a  false  step  in  a  woman's  life,  will  not  sit  idle  and 


Ann    Boyd 

see  one  of  the  gentlest  of  your  kind  blindly  take  it. 
You  can't,  and  you  won't.  You'll  save  her  for  me. 
You'll  save  me,  too — save  me  from  the  fate  of  a 
murderer." 

He  stood  up.  "I'm  going  now,"  he  finished.  " I 
must  hurry  on  home.  I  won't  have  time  to  see  you 
in  the  morning  before  I  leave,  but  you  now  know 
what  I  am  living  for.  I  am  living  only  for  Virginia 
Hemingway.  Men  and  women  are  made  for  each 
other,  we  were  made  for  each  other.  She  may 
fancy  she  cares  for  that  man,  but  she  doesn't,  Aunt 
Ann,  any  more  than  you  now  care  for — but  I  won't 
say  it.  Good-bye.  You  are  angry  now,  but  you 
will  get  over  it,  and — and,  you  will  stand  by  me, 
and  by  her." 


XXI 

JEFT  alone,  still  crouching  on  her  door- 
step, Ann,  with  fixed  eyes  and  a  face 
like  carved  stone,  watched  him  move 
away  in  the  soft  moonlight,  the  very 
embodiment  of  youth  and  faith.  She 
twisted  her  cold  hands  between  her  knees  and 
moaned.  What  was  the  matter  with  her,  anyway  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  the  recent  raging  fires  of  her 
life's  triumph  were  already  smouldering  embers, 
half  covered  with  the  ashes  of  cowardly  indecision  ? 
Was  she  to  sit  quaking  like  that  because  a  mere 
youth  wanted  his  toy?  Was  she  not  entitled  to 
the  sweet  spoils  of  victory,  after  her  long  struggle 
and  defence?  Yes,  but  Virginia!  After  all,  what 
had  the  innocent,  sweet-natured  girl  to  do  with  the 
grim  battle?  Never,  in  all  Ann  had  heard  of  the 
constant  gossip  against  her,  had  one  word  come 
from  Virginia.  Once,  years  ago,  Ann  recalled  a 
remark  of  Mrs.  Waycroft  that  the  girl  had  tried  to 
keep  her  mother  from  speaking  so  harshly  of  the 
lone  brunt  of  general  reproach,  and  yet  Virginia 
was  at  that  very  moment  treading  the  crumbling 
edge  of  the  self-same  precipice  over  which  Ann  had 
toppled. 

The  lone  woman  rose  stiffly  and  went  into  the 
house  to  go  to  bed — to  go  to  bed — to  sleep!  with 

197 


Ann    Boyd 

all  that  battle  of  emotion  in  her  soul  and  brain. 
The  clock  steadily  ticking  and  throwing  its  round, 
brass  pendulum  from  side  to  side  caught  her  eye. 
It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  hands,  so  she  lighted  a 
tallow-dip,  and  with  the  fixed  stare  of  a  dying  per- 
son she  peered  into  the  clock's  face.  Half-past  ten! 
Yes,  there  was  perhaps  time  for  the  rescue.  If  she 
were  to  get  to  Chester's  in  time,  her  judgment  of 
woman's  nature  told  her  one  word  from  her  would 
complete  the  rescue — the  rescue  of  Jane  Heming- 
way's child — Jane's  chief  hope  and  flag  of  virtue 
that  she  would  still  wave  defiantly  in  her  eyes. 
Without  undressing — why,  she  could  not  have  ex- 
plained— Ann  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow,  clutching  it  with  tense, 
angry  hands. 

"Oh,  what's  the  matter  with  me?"  she  groaned. 
"Why  did  that  fool  boy  come  here  to-night,  telling 
me  that  it  would  bring  him  to  the  gallows  stained 
to  the  bone  with  the  dye  of  hell,  and  that  /  must 
keep  her  in  the  right  road — me?  Huh,  me  keep  a 
girl  in  the  right  track,  so  they  can  keep  on  saying 
I'm  the  only  scab  on  the  body  of  the  community? 
I  won't ;  by  all  the  powers  above  and  below,  /  won't ! 
She  can  look  out  for  herself,  even  if  it  does  ruin  an 
idiot  of  a  man  and  pull  him —  It  really  would  ruin 
him,  though.  Maybe  it  would  ruin  me.  Maybe 
he's  right  and  I  ought  to  make  a  life  business  of 
saving  others  from  what  I've  been  through — saving 
even  my  enemies.  Christ  said  it ;  there  is  no  doubt 
about  that.  He  said  it.  He  never  had  to  go 
through  with  what  I  have,  though,  for  He  was  free 
from  the  desire  to  fight,  but  He  meant  that  one  thing, 

198 


Ann    Boyd 

as  the  one  great  law  of  life — the  only  law  of  life! 
Oh,  God,  I  must  do  something!  I  must  either  save 
the  girl  or  let  it  go  on.  I  don't  know  which  to 
do,  as  God  is  my  creator,  I  don't  actually  know 
which  to  do.  I  don't — I  don't— I  don't — really — • 
know — which — I  want  to  do.  That's  it — I  don't 
know  which  I  want  to  do.  I'm  simply  crazy  to- 
night. I've  never  felt  this  way  before.  I've  al- 
ways been  able  to  tell  whether  I  wanted,  or  didn't 
want,  a  thing,  but  now — " 

She  turned  over  on  her  side.  Then  she  sat  up, 
staring  at  the  clock.  Next  she  put  her  feet  on  the 
floor  and  stood  erect.  "  I  won't,"  she  said,  between 
set  teeth.  "I  won't.  Before  God,  and  all  the  imps 
of  hell  I'll  not  meddle  with  it.  It's  Jane  Heming- 
way's business  to  look  after  her  silly  girl,  and  not 
mine." 

She  went  again  to  the  porch  and  stood  staring 
out  into  the  white  moonlight.  The  steady  beat  of 
the  hoofs  of  Luke  King's  horse,  dying  out  on  the 
still  night,  came  to  her.  Dear,  dear  boy!  he  did 
love  the  girl  and  he  never  would  be  the  same  again — 
never.  It  would  mean  his  downfall  from  the  glori- 
ous heights  he  had  climbed.  He  would  grapple  as 
a  wild  beast  with  the  despoiler,  and,  as  he  said,  go 
willingly  to  his  own  end  ?  Yes,  that  was  Luke  King ; 
he  had  preached  of  the  rugged  road  to  heaven,  he 
would  take  the  easier  way  to  hell,  and  laugh  in  his 
despair  at  the  wrhole  thing  as  a  joke  of  fate. 

Before  she  knew  it,  Ann  found  herself  out  at  her 
gate.  Forces  within  her  raised  her  hand  to  the 
latch  and  pushed  her  body  through. 

"I'll  not  meddle,"  she  said,  and  yet  she  moved  on 

199 


Ann   Boyd 


down  the  road.  She  met  no  one,  heard  nothing 
save  the  dismal  croakings  of  the  frogs  in  the  marshes. 
On  she  went,  increasing  her  speed  at  every  step. 
Yes,  she  realized  now  that  she  must  try  to  save  the 
girl,  for  Virginia  had  done  her  no  personal  injury. 
No,  she  must  abide  another  time  and  seek  some 
other  means  for  revenge  against  the  mother.  Chance 
would  offer  something.  Why,  the  cancer  —  why 
hadn't  she  thought  of  that?  Wasn't  that  enough 
for  any  human  being  to  bear  ?  Yes,  Jane  would  get 
her  reward.  It  was  fast  on  the  road.  And  for 
Luke's  sake  —  for  the  sake  of  the  brave,  good- 
hearted,  struggling  boy,  she  would  try  to  save  his 
sweetheart.  Yes,  that  seemed  inevitable.  The 
long,  white  fence  of  the  Chester  place  suddenly  cut 
across  her  view.  Near  the  centre  Ann  descried  the 
tall,  imitation  stone  gate-posts,  spanned  at  the  top 
by  a  white  crescent,  and  towards  this  portal  she 
sped,  breathing  through  her  big  nostrils  like  a  labor- 
ing ox. 

Reaching  the  gate  and  opening  it,  she  saw  a 
buggy  and  a  pair  of  horses  hitched  near  the  door. 
Ann  paused  among  the  boxwood  bushes  and  stared 
in  perplexity.  What  could  it  mean  ?  she  asked  her- 
self. Had  Colonel  Chester  suddenly  returned  home,  or 
was  Langdon  recklessly  planning  to  flee  the  country 
with  the  thoughtless  girl  ?  Mystified,  Ann  trudged 
up  the  gravelled  walk,  seeing  no  one,  till  she  stood 
on  the  veranda  steps.  The  big,  old-fashioned 
drawing-room  on  the  right  of  the  dark  entrance-hall 
was  lighted  up.  Loud,  masculine  laughter  and 
bacchanalian  voices  burst  through  the  half-open 
windows.  Ann  went  up  the  steps  and  peered  in 

200 


Ann  *Boyd 

at  one  of  them,  keeping  her  body  well  back  in  the 
shadow.  There  were  three  men  within — two  drum- 
mers, one  of  whom  was  Fred  Masters,  and  Langdon 
Chester.  The  latter,  calm  and  collected,  and  yet 
with  a  look  of  suppressed  fury  on  his  face,  was  re- 
luctantly serving  whiskey  from  an  ancient  cut-glass 
decanter.  Ann  saw  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an 
angry  outburst,  and  began  to  speculate  on  the 
cause.  Ah!  she  had  an  idea,  and  it  thrilled  her 
through  and  through.  Quietly  retracing  her  steps 
to  the  lawn,  she  inspected  the  exterior  of  the  great, 
rambling  structure.  She  was  now  sure  that  the 
visit  of  the  men  had  come  in  the  nature  of  an  un- 
welcome surprise  to  the  young  master  of  the  house, 
and  she  found  herself  suddenly  clinging  to  the 
warm  hope  that  the  accident  might  have  saved  the 
girl. 

"  Oh,  God,  let  it  be  so!"  Ann  heard  herself  actually 
praying.  "Give  the  poor  young  thing  a  chance  to 
escape  what  I've  been  through!" 

But  where  was  the  object  of  her  quest  ?  Surely, 
Virginia  had  not  gone  back  home,  else  Ann  would 
have  met  her  on  the  way.  Looking  long  and  stead- 
ily at  the  house,  Ann  suddenly  descried  a  dim  light 
burning  up-stairs  in  the  front  room  on  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  upper  hall.  Instinct  told  her  that  she 
ought  to  search  there,  and,  going  back  to  the  house, 
the  determined  rescuer  crossed  the  veranda,  walked 
boldly  through  the  open  doorway,  and  tiptoed  to 
the  foot  of  the  broad,  winding  stairway.  Loud 
laughter,  the  clinking  of  glasses,  and  blatant  voices 
raised  in  harsh  college-songs  burst  upon  her.  The 
yawning  space  through  which  the  stairs  reached 

14  201 


Ann   Boyd 

upward  was  dark,  but  with  a  steady  hand  on  the 
smooth  walnut  balustrade,  Ann  mounted  higher 
and  higher  with  absolutely  fearless  tread.  She  had 
just  gained  the  first  landing,  and  stood  there  en- 
compassed in  darkness,  when  the  door  of  the  draw- 
ing-room was  suddenly  wrenched  open  and  Lang- 
don  and  Masters,  in  each  other's  arms,  playfully 
struggled  into  view. 

"You  really  must  go  now,  boys,"  Chester  was 
saying,  in  a  persuasive  voice.  "I  don't  want  to  be 
inhospitable,  you  know,  but  I  have  that  important 
work  to  do,  and  it  must  be  done  to-night.  It  is  a 
serious  legal  matter,  and  I  promised  to  mail  the 
papers  to  my  father  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"Papers  nothing!"  Masters  cried,  in  a  drink- 
muffled  tone.  "This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  hon- 
ored your  old  ancestral  shack  with  my  presence, 
and  I  won't  be  sent  off  like  a  tramp  from  the  door. 
Besides,  you  are  not  open  and  above-board — you 
never  were  so  at  college.  That  was  your  great  forte, 
freezing  your  friends  out  of  asking  questions  where 
your  private  devilment  was  concerned.  That,  and 
the  reputation  of  your  family  for  fighting  duels, 
kept  the  whole  school  afraid  of  you.  On  my  honor, 
Dick,"  he  called  out  to  the  man  in  the  drawing- 
room,  "I  tell  you  I'm  sure  I  saw  a  woman  with 
him  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda  as  we  drove  up. 
He  had  hold  of  her  hand  and  was  pulling  her  into 
the  hall." 

"Ah,  don't  be  absurd,"  Ann  heard  Chester  say, 
with  a  smooth,  guarded  laugh.  "Get  in  your  rig, 
boys,  and  drive  back  to  the  hotel.  I'll  see  you  in 
the  morning." 

202 


Ann    Boyd 

"  Get  in  the  rig  nothing !"  Masters  laughed.  "We 
are  going  to  spend  the  night  here,  aren't  we,  Dick?" 

"You  bet ;  that's  what  I  came  for,"  a  voice  replied 
from  within.  "But  let  him  go  do  his  work,  Fred. 
You  and  I  can  finish  the  game,  and  empty  his  de- 
canter. You  can't  walk  off  with  my  money  and 
not  give  me  a  chance  to  win  it  back." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  a  bang-up  idea,"  Masters  laughed, 
and  he  pushed  Chester  by  main  force  back  into  the 
light.  You  go  burn  the  midnight  oil,  old  man, 
and  I'll  make  this  tenderfoot  telegraph  his  house 
for  more  expense  money." 

With  a  thunderous  slam,  the  door  was  closed. 
Loud  voices  in  hot  argument  came  from  the  room, 
and  then  there  was  silence.  Chester  had  evidently 
given  up  in  despair  of  getting  rid  of  his  guests. 
Ann  moved  on  up  the  steps.  In  the  room  on  the 
left  the  light  was  still  burning,  she  could  see  a  pencil 
of  it  under  the  door-shutter.  To  this  she  groped 
and  softly  rapped,  bending  her  ear  to  the  key-hole 
to  listen.  There  was  no  sound  within.  Ann  rapped 
again,  more  loudly,  her  hand  on  the  latch.  She 
listened  again,  and  this  time  she  was  sure  she  heard 
a  low  moan.  Turning  the  bolt,  she  found  the  door 
locked,  but  at  the  same  instant  noticed  that  the  key 
had  been  left  in  the  door  on  the  outside.  Turning 
the  key,  Ann  opened  the  door,  went  in,  and  softly 
closed  the  opening  after  her.  A  lamp,  turned  low, 
stood  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  in  its  light  she  saw  a 
crouching  figure  in  a  chair.  It  was  Virginia,  her 
face  covered  with  her  hand,  moaning  piteously. 

"  Let  me  go  home,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  go  home !" 
she  cried,  without  looking  up.  "You  said  I  was 

'  203 


Ann    Boyd 

to  get  the  money,  if  I  came  only  to  the  door,  and 
now — oh,  oh!"  The  girl  buried  her  face  still  deeper 
in  her  apron  and  sobbed. 

Ann,  an  almost  repulsive  grimace  on  her  im- 
passive face,  stood  over  her  and  looked  about  the 
quaintly  furnished  room  with  its  quiet  puritanical 
luxury  of  space,  at  the  massive  mahogany  centre- 
table,  with  carved  legs  and  dragon-heads  support- 
ing the  polished  top,  the  high -posted  bed  and  rich, 
old,  faded  canopy,  the  white  counterpane  and  pil- 
lows looking  like  freshly  fallen  snow. 

"Thank  God,"  Ann  said,  aloud. 

Virginia  heard,  sat  as  if  stunned  for  an  instant, 
and  then  with  a  stare  of  bewilderment  looked  up. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.     "I  thought  it  was — " 

"I  know,  huh,  child!  nobody  could  know  better 
than  I  do.  Don't  ask  me  what  I  come  here  for.  I 
don't  know  any  better  than  you  do,  but  I  come,  and 
I'm  going  to  get  you  out  of  it — that  is,  if  I'm  in 
time  to  do  any  good  at  all.  Oh,  you  understand 
me,  Virginia  Hemingway.  If  I'm  in  time,  you'll 
march  out  of  here  with  me,  if  not,  God  knows  you 
might  as  well  stay  here  as  anywhere  else." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd,  how  can  you  ask  me  such  an 
awful—" 

"Well,  then,  I  won't!"  Ann  said,  more  softly. 
"Besides,  I  can  see  the  truth  in  your  young  face. 
The  Almighty  has  put  lights  in  the  eyes  of  women 
that  only  one  thing  can  put  out.  Yours  are  still 
burning." 

Virginia  rose  to  her  feet  and  clutched  Ann's 
strong  arm  convulsively. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  why  I  came,  you'd  not  have 
204 


Ann   Boyd 

the  heart  to  think  me  absolutely  bad.  Mrs.  Boyd, 
as  God  is  my  Judge,  I  came  because  he — " 

"You  needn't  bother  to  tell  me  anything  about 
it,"  Ann  grunted,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "  I 
know  why  you  corne;  if  I  hadn't  suspicioned  the 
truth  I'd  have  let  you  alone,  but  I  ain't  going  to 
tell  you  why  I  come.  I  come,  that's  all.  I  come, 
and  if  we  are  going  to  get  out  of  here  without  a 
scandal  we've  got  to  be  slick  about  it.  Those  devils 
are  still  carousing  down  there.  Let's  go  now  while 
the  parlor  door  is  shut. 

They  had  reached  the  threshold  of  the  chamber 
when  Virginia  drew  back  suddenly. 

"He  told  me  not  to  dare  to  go  that  way!"  she 
cried.  "He  said  I'd  be  seen  if  I  did.  He  locked 
me  in,  Mrs.  Boyd — he  locked  the  door!" 

"I  know  that,  too,"  Ann  retorted,  impatiently. 
"  Didn't  I  have  to  turn  the  key  to  get  in  ?  But  we've 
got  to  go  this  way.  We've  got  to  go  down  them 
steps  like  I  come,  and  past  the  room  where  they 
are  holding  high  carnival.  We've  got  to  chance  it, 
but  we  must  be  quick  about  it.  We  haven't  time 
to  stand  here  talking." 

She  turned  the  carved  brass  knob  and  drew  the 
shutter  towards  her.  At  the  same  instant  she 
shrank  back  into  Virginia's  arms,  for  the  drawing- 
room  door  was  wrenched  open,  and  Masters 's  voice 
rang  out  loudly  in  the  great  hall. 

"We  will  see  where  he  bunks,  won't  we,  Dick? 
By  George,  the  idea  of  an  old  college-chum  refusing 
to  let  a  man  see  his  house!  I  want  to  look  at  the 
photographs  you  used  to  stick  up  on  the  walls,  you 
sly  dog!  Oh,  you've  got  them  yet!  You  don't 

205 


Ann  Boyd 

throw  beauties  like  them  away  when  they  cost  a 
dollar  apiece." 

"Go  back  to  your  game,  boys!"  Langdon  com- 
manded, with  desperate  coolness.  "I'll  show  you 
the  house  after  a  while.  Finish  your  game!" 

"The  cold-blooded  scoundrel!"  Ann  exclaimed, 
under  her  breath.  "  Not  a  drop  has  passed  his  lips 
to-night,  as  much  as  he  likes  a  dram."  She  closed 
the  door  gently  and  stood  looking  about  the  room. 
On  the  edge  of  the  mantel-piece  she  saw  something 
that  gleamed  in  the  dim  lamplight,  and  she  went 
to  it.  It  was  a  loaded  revolver. 

"He  threatened  you  with  this,  didn't  he?"  Ann 
asked,  holding  it  before  her  with  the  easy  clasp  of 
an  expert. 

"No,  he  didn't  do  that,"  Virginia  faltered,  "but 
he  told  me  if — if  I  made  a  noise  and  attracted  their 
attention  and  caused  exposure,  he'd  kill  himself. 
Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd,  I  didn't  mean  to  come  here  to  this 
room  at  first.  I  swear  I  didn't.  He  begged  me  to 
come  as  far  as  the  front  door  to  get  the  money  the 
man  had  brought  back  from  Darley,  then — " 

"Then  those  drunken  fools  drove  up,  and  he  per- 
suaded you  to  hide  here,"  Ann  interrupted,  her 
mind  evidently  on  something  else.  "Oh,  I  under- 
stand ;  they  played  into  his  hands  without  knowing 
it,  and  it's  my  private  opinion  that  they  saved  you, 
silly  child.  You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  men 
full  of  the  fire  of  hell.  You'd  'a'  gone  out  of  this 
house  at  break  of  day  with  every  bit  of  self-respect 
wrung  out  of  you  like  water  out  of  a  rag.  You'd 
'a'  done  that,  if  I  hadn't  come." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd—" 

206 


Ann   Boyd 

"Don't  oh  Mrs.  Boyd  me!"  Ann  snapped  out.  "  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about.  That  isn't  the  point. 
The  point  is  getting  out  to  the  road  without  a  row 
and  a  scandal  that  will  ring  half-way  round  the 
world.  Let  a  couple  of  foul-mouthed  drummers 
know  a  thing  like  this,  and  they  would  actually 
pay  to  advertise  it  in  the  papers.  I  tell  you,  child — ' ' 

Ann  broke  off  to  listen.  The  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  seemed  to  be  opened  again,  and  as  quickly 
closed. 

"Come  on."  Ann  held  the  revolver  before  her. 
"We've  got  to  make  a  break  for  freedom.  This 
ain't  no  place  for  a  pure  young  woman.  You've 
got  what  the  highfaluting  society  gang  at  Darley 
would  call  a  chaperon,  but  she  isn't  exactly  of  the 
first  water,  according  to  the  way  such  things  are 
usually  graded.  Seems  like  she's  able  to  teach  you 
tricks  to-night." 

Virginia  caught  Ann's  arm.  "  You  are  not  going 
to  shoot—  "  she  began,  nervously. 

"Not  unless  I  have  to,"  Ann  said.  "But  only 
hell  knows  what  two  drunken  men  and  a  cold,  cal- 
culating devil  of  that  brand  will  do  in  a  pinch.  I'll 
see  you  down  them  steps,  and  out  into  God's  moon- 
light, if  I  have  to  drag  you  over  enough  corpses  to 
make  a  corduroy  road.  I  know  how  to  shoot.  I 
killed  a  squirrel  once  in  a  high  tree  with  a  pistol. 
Come  on;  they  happen  to  be  quiet  right  now." 

Ann  opened  the  door  and  led  the  quaking  girl 
across  the  upper  corridor  to  the  stairs,  and  they 
began  to  grope  down  the  steps,  Ann's  revolver 
harshly  scratching  as  it  slid  along  the  railing.  The 
voices  in  the  drawing-room,  as  they  neared  the  door, 

207 


Ann   Boyd 

grew  more  boisterous.  There  was  a  spasmodic  and 
abortive  effort  at  song  on  the  part  of  Masters,  a 
dash  of  a  deck  of  playing-cards  on  the  floor,  angry 
swearing,  and  the  calm  remonstrance  of  the  master 
of  the  house.  Down  the  steps  the  two  women  went 
till  the  drawing-room  door  was  passed.  Then  the 
veranda  was  gained,  and  the  wide  lawn  and  grav- 
elled walks  stretched  out  invitingly  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"Thank  God,"  Ann  muttered,  as  if  to  herself. 
"Now  come  on,  let's  hustle  out  into  the  shelter  of 
the  woods." 

Speeding  down  the  walk,  hand  -  in  -  hand,  they 
passed  through  the  gate  and  reached  the  road. 
"Slick  as  goose-grease,"  Ann  chuckled.  "Now  we 
are  plumb  safe — as  safe  as  we'd  be  anywhere  in  the 
world." 

Drawing  Virginia  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
bordering  the  road,  she  continued,  more  deliberately: 
"I  could  take  you  through  the  woods  and  across 
my  meadows  and  fields,  but  it's  a  rough  way  at 
night,  and  it  won't  be  necessary.  We  can  take  the 
main  road  and  dodge  out  of  the  way  if  we  hear  any- 
body coming." 

"I'm  not  afraid  now,"  Virginia  sighed.  "I'm 
not  thinking  about  that.  I'm  only  worried  about 
what  you  think — what  you  think,  Mrs.  Boyd." 

"Never  you  mind  what  /  think,  child,"  Ann  said, 
quietly.  "God  knows  I  never  would  blame  you 
like  other  folks,  for  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about 
life.  I've  learned  my  lesson." 

Virginia  laid  her  hand  firmly  on  Ann's  strong 
one.  "  He  promised  me  the  money  to  have  mother's 

208 


Ann    Boyd 

operation  performed.  Oh,  I  couldn't  let  the  chance 
escape,  Mrs.  Boyd — it  meant  so  much  to  the  poor 
woman.  You  have  no  idea  what  torture  she  is  in. 
He  wouldn't  give  it  to  me  unless — unless  I  went  all 
the  way  to  his  house  for  it.  I  hardly  knew  why, 
but — yes,  I  knew — " 

"That's  right,"  Ann  broke  in,  "it  won't  do  any 
good  to  tell  a  story  about  it.  You  knew  what  he 
wanted;  any  girl  of  your  age  with  common-sense 
would  know." 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  Virginia  confessed  again,  her  head 
hanging,  "but  it  was  the  only  chance  to  get  the 
money,  and  I  thought  I'd  risk  it.  I  did  risk  it,  and 
have  come  away  empty-handed.  I'm  safe,  but  my 
poor  mother — " 

"Put  that  woman  out  of  it  for  one  minute,  for 
God's  sake!"  Ann  hurled  at  her.  "And  right  here 
I  wrant  it  understood  I  didn't  leave  a  warm  bed 
to-night  to  do  her  a  favor.  I  done  it,  that's  all 
there  is  about  it,  but  keep  her  out  of  it." 

"All  right,"  the  girl  gave  in.  "I  don't  want  to 
make  you  mad  after  what  you  have  done,  but  I 
owe  it  to  myself  to  show  you  that  I  was  thinking 
only  of  her.  I  am  not  bad  at  heart,  Mrs.  Boyd.  I 
wanted  to  save  my  mother's  life." 

"And  you  never  thought  of  yourself,  poor  child!" 
slipped  impulsively  from  Ann's  firm  lips.  "Yes, 
yes,  I  believe  that." 

"  I  thought  only  of  her,  till  I  found  myself  locked 
there  in  his  room  and  remembered  what,  in  my 
excitement,  I  had  promised  him.  I  promised  him, 
Mrs.  Boyd,  to  make  no  outcry,  and — and — "  Vir- 
ginia raised  her  hands  to  her  face.  "I  promised, 

209 


Ann    Boyd 

on  my  word  of  honor,  to  wait  there  till  he  came 
back.  When  you  knocked  on  the  door  I  thought 
it  was  he,  and  when  you  opened  it  and  came  in  and 
stood  above  me,  I  thought  it  was  all  over.  Instead, 
it  was  you,  and — " 

"And  here  we  are  out  in  the  open  air,"  Ann  said, 
shifting  the  revolver  to  the  other  hand.  She  sud- 
denly fixed  her  eyes  on  Virginia's  thin-clad  shoul- 
ders. "  You  didn't  come  here  a  cool  night  like  this 
without  something  around  you,  did  you?" 

"No,  I — oh,  I've  left  my  shawl!"  the  girl  cried. 
"He  took  it  from  me,  and  kept  it.  He  said  it 
was  to  bind  me  to  my  promise  to  stay  till  he  got 
back." 

"  The  scoundrel ! — the  wily  scamp !"  Ann  muttered. 
"Well,  there  is  only  one  thing  about  it,  child.  I'm 
going  back  after  that  shawl.  I  wouldn't  leave  a 
thing  like  that  in  the  hands  of  a  young  devil  beat 
in  his  game;  he'd  make  use  of  it.  You  go  on  home. 
I'll  get  your  shawl  by  some  hook  or  crook.  You 
run  over  to  my  house  on  the  sly  to-morrow  morn- 
ing and  I'll  give  it  back  to  you." 

"But,  Mrs.  Boyd,  I—" 

"Do  as  I  tell  you,"  the  elder  woman  commanded, 
"  and  see  that  you  keep  this  thing  from  Jane  Heming- 
way. I  don't  want  her  to  know  the  part  I've  taken 
to-night.  Seems  to  me  I'd  rather  die.  What  I've 
done,  I've  done,  but  it  isn't  for  her  to  know.  I've 
helped  her  daughter  out  of  trouble,  but  the  fight  is 
still  on  between  me  and  her,  and  don't  you  forget 
it.  Now,  go  on ;  don't  stand  there  and  argue 
with  me.  Go  on,  I  tell  you.  What  you  standing 
there  like  a  sign -post  with  the  boards  knocked 

210 


Ann    Boyd 

off   for?    Go  on  home.     I'm  going  back  for  that 
shawl." 

Virginia  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with- 
out speaking  again,  and  with  her  head  hanging  down> 
she  turned  homeward. 


XXII 

ss{S  Ann  Boyd  reached  the  veranda,  on 
her  return  to  the  house,  loud  and 
angry  voices  came  from  the  parlor 
through  an  open  window. 

"Blast  you,  I  believe  it  was  some 
woman,"  she  heard  Masters  say  in  a  maudlin  tone, 
"and  that's  why  you  are  so  anxious  to  hurry  us 
away.  Oh,  I'm  onto  you.  George  Wilson  told 
me  you  were  hanging  round  the  girl  you  refused  to 
introduce  me  to,  and  for  all  I  know — " 

"That's  no  business  of  yours,"  Chester  retorted, 
in  a  tone  of  sudden  fury.  "I've  stood  this  about 
as  long  as  I'm  going  to,  Masters,  even  if  you  are 
drunk  and  don't  know  what  you  are  about.  Peter- 
kin,  you'd  better  take  your  friend  home;  my  house 
is  not  a  bar-room,  and  my  affairs  are  my  own.  I 
want  that  understood." 

"Look  here,  Masters,"  a  new  voice  broke  in,  "you 
are  going  too  far,  and  I'm  not  going  to  stand  for  it. 
Chester's  right.  When  you  are  full  you  are  the 
most  unreasonable  man  alive.  This  is  my  turnout 
at  the  door — come  on,  or  I'll  leave  you  to  walk  to 
Springtown." 

"Well,  I'll  go  all  right,"  threatened  Masters,  "but 
I  am  not  done  yet.  I'll  see  you  again,  my  boy. 
What  they  used  to  say  in  college  is  true;  you  won't 

212 


Ann    Boyd 

tote  fair.  You  are  for  number  one  every  time,  and 
would  sacrifice  a  friend  for  your  own  interests  at  the 
drop  of  a  hat." 

"Take  him  on,  take  him  on!"  cried  Chester. 

"Oh,  I'm  going  all  right!"  growled  Masters. 
"And  I'm  not  drunk  either.  My  judgment  of  you 
is  sober-headed  enough.  You — " 

They  were  coming  through  the  hall  to  gain  the 
door,  and  Ann  quickly  concealed  herself  behind  one 
of  the  tall  Corinthian  columns  that  supported  the 
massive,  projecting  roof  of  the  veranda.  She  was 
standing  well  in  the  shadow  when  Masters,  drawn 
forcibly  by  his  friend,  staggered  limply  out  and 
down  the  steps.  Langdon  followed  to  the  edge  of 
the  veranda,  and  stood  there,  frowning  sullenly  in 
the  light  from  the  window.  He  was  pale  and  hag- 
gard, his  lip  quivering  in  the  rage  he  was  trying  to 
control  as  he  watched  Peterkin  half  lifting  and  al- 
most roughly  shoving  Masters  into  the  vehicle. 

"The  puppy!"  Ann  heard  him  muttering.  "I 
ought  to  have  slapped  his  meddlesome  mouth." 

Several  minutes  passed.  Ann  scarcely  dared  to 
breathe  freely,  so  close  was  she  to  the  young  planter. 
Masters  was  now  in  the  buggy,  leaning  forward,  his 
head  lolling  over  the  dashboard,  and  Peterkin  was 
getting  in  beside  him.  The  next  moment  the  im- 
patient horses  had  turned  around  and  were  off  down 
the  drive  in  a  brisk  trot. 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  have  kicked  the  meddling  devil 
out  and  been  done  with  it!"  Ann  heard  Langdon 
say.  "She,  no  doubt,  has  heard  all  the  racket  and 
been  scared  to  death  all  this  time,  poor  little  thing!" 

Chester  was  on  the  point  of  turning  into  the  hall 
213 


Ann   Boyd 

when  a  step  sounded  at  the  corner  of  the  house 
nearest  the  negro  quarter,  and  a  short,  portly  figure 
emerged  into  the  light. 

*'Marse  Langdon,  you  dar?"  a  voice  sounded. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Maria."  The  young  planter  spoke 
with  ill-disguised  impatience.  "What  is  it?" 

"Nothin',  Marse  Langdon,  'cep'  dem  rapscallions 
kept  me  awake,  an'  I  heard  you  stormin'  out  at  um. 
I  tol'  yo'  pa,  Marse  Langdon,  ef  dey  was  any  mo' 
night  carouses  while  he  was  gone  I'd  let  'im  know, 
but  I  ain't  gwine  mention  dis,  kase  I  done  see  how 
hard  you  tried  to  oust  dat  low  white  trash  widout 
a  row.  You  acted  de  plumb  gentleman,  Marse 
Langdon.  Is  de  anything  I  kin  do  fer  you,  Marse 
Langdon?" 

"No,  Aunt  Maria."  Chester's  tone  betrayed  im- 
patience even  with  the  consideration  of  the  faithful 
servant.  "No,  I  don't  want  a  thing.  I'm  going 
to  bed.  I've  got  a  headache.  If  any  one  should 
call  to-night,  which  is  not  likely  at  this  hour,  send 
them  away.  I  sha'n't  get  up." 

Ann  was  now  fearful  lest  in  turning  he  would  dis- 
cover her  presence  before  the  negro  had  withdrawn, 
and,  seeing  her  opportunity  while  his  attention  was 
still  on  the  road,  from  which  the  trotting  of  the  de- 
parting horses  came  in  a  steady  beat  of  hoofs,  she 
noiselessly  glided  into  the  big  hall  through  the  open 
door  and  stood  against  a  wall  in  the  darkness. 

"Now,  I  reckon,  they  will  let  me  alone!"  she 
heard  Chester  say,  as  he  came  into  the  hall  and 
turned  into  the  parlor.  The  next  instant  he  had 
blown  out  the  tall  prismed  lamp,  lowered  a  win- 
dow, and  come  out  to  close  and  lock  the  front  door. 

214 


Ann    Boyd 

His  hand  was  on  the  big  brass  handle  when,  in  a  calm 
voice,  Ann  addressed  him: 

"I  want  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Chester,"  she  said, 
and  she  moved  towards  him,  the  revolver  hanging 
at  her  side. 

She  heard  him  gasp,  and  he  stood  as  if  paralyzed 
in  the  moonbeams  which  fell  through  the  open  door- 
way and  the  side-lights  of  frosted  glass. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  managed  to  articulate. 

"Oh,  you  know  me,  I  reckon,  Mr.  Chester.  I'm 
Ann  Boyd.  I  want  to  see  you  on  a  little  private 
business,  just  between  you  and  me,  you  know.  It 
needn't  go  any  further." 

"Oh,  Ann  Boyd!"  he  exclaimed,  and  the  thought 
ran  through  his  bewildered  brain  that  she  had  mis- 
taken him  for  his  father,  and  that  he  was  accidental- 
ly running  upon  evidence  of  an  intercourse  between 
the  two  that  he  had  thought  was  a  thing  of  the 
past.  "But,  Mrs.  Boyd,"  he  said,  "you've  made 
a  mistake.  My  father  is  away;  he  left  for  Savan- 
nah—" 

"I  didn't  want  to  see  your  father,"  Ann  snarled, 
angrily.  "  My  business  is  with  you,  my  fine  young 
man,  and  nobody  else." 

"Me?"  he  gasped,  in  growing  surprise.     "Me?'* 

"  Yes,  you.  I've  come  back  for  Virginia  Heming- 
way's shawl.  She  says  you  kept  it.  Just  between 
you  and  me,"  she  went  on,  "I  don't  intend  to 
leave  a  thing  like  that  in  the  hands  of  a  man  of  your 
stamp  to  hold  over  the  poor  girl  and  intimidate  her 
with." 

"You  say — you  say — "  He  seemed  unable  to 
formulate  expression  for  his  abject  astonishment, 

215 


Ann    Boyd 

and  he  left  the  door  and  aimlessly  moved  to  the 
railing  of  the  stairs  and  stood  facing  her.  His  eyes 
now  fell  on  the  revolver  in  her  hand,  and  the  sight 
of  it  increased  his  wondering  perturbation. 

"  I  said  I  wanted  her  shawl,"  Ann  repeated,  firmly, 
"and  I  don't  see  no  reason  why  I  should  stand  here 
all  night  to  get  it.  You  know  what  you  did  with  it. 
Hand  it  to  me!" 

"Her  shawl?"  he  muttered,  still  staring  at  her 
wide  -  eyed  and  bewildered,  and  wondering  if  this 
might  not  be  some  trap  the  vindictive  recluse  was 
setting  for  him. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Ann  laughed — "you  think  the  poor, 
frail  thing  is  still  up  there  locked  in  that  room;  but 
she  ain't.  I  saw  her  coming  this  way  to-night,  and, 
happening  to  know  what  you  wanted  her  for,  I 
come  after  her.  You  was  busy  with  them  galoots 
in  the  parlor,  and  I  didn't  care  to  bother  you,  so  I 
went  up  and  fetched  her  down  without  waiting  to 
send  in  a  card.  She's  in  her  bed  by  this  time,  poor 
little  thing!  And  I  come  back  for  the  shawl.  I 
wasn't  afraid  of  you,  even  without  this  gun  that  I 
found  in  your  room.  Thank  God,  the  girl's  as  pure 
as  she  was  the  day  she  drew  milk  from  her  mother's 
breast,  and  I'll  see  to  it  that  you  won't  never  bother 
her  again.  This  night  you  have  sunk  lower  than 
man  ever  sunk — even  them  in  your  own  family. 
You  tried  everything  hell  could  invent,  and  when 
you  failed  you  went  to  heaven  for  your  bribes. 
You  knew  how  she  loved  her  wretched  old  hag  of  a 
mammy  and  what  she  wanted  the  money  for.  Some 
sensible  folks  argue  that  there  isn't  no  such  place 
as  a  hell.  I  tell  you,  Langdon  Chester,  there  is  one, 

216 


Ann   Boyd 

and  it's  full  to  running  over — packed  to  the  brink — 
with  your  sort.  For  your  own  low  and  selfish 
gratification  you'd  consign  that  beautiful  flower  of 
a  girl  to  a  long  life  of  misery.  You  dirty  scamp, 
I'm  a  good  mind  to —  Look  here,  get  me  that 
shawl!  You'll  make  me  mad  in  a  minute."  She 
suddenly  advanced  towards  him,  the  revolver  raised 
half  threateningly,  and  he  shrank  back  in  alarm. 

"Don't,  don't  point  that  thing  at  me!"  he  cried. 
"I  don't  want  trouble  with  you." 

"Well,  you  get  that  shawl  then,  and  be  quick 
about  it." 

He  put  a  foot  on  the  lower  step  of  the  stairs. 
"  It's  up  at  the  door  of  the  room,"  he  said,  doggedly. 
"I  dropped  it  there  just  for  a  joke.  I  was  only 
teasing  her.  I — I  know  she's  a  good  girl.  She — 
she  knew  I  was  going  to  give  it  back  to  her.  I  was 
afraid  she'd  get  frightened  and  run  down  before 
those  men,  and — " 

"And  your  hellish  cake  would  be  dough!"  Ann 
sneered.  "Oh,  I  see,  but  that  isn't  getting  the 
shawl." 

He  took  another  slow  step,  his  eyes  upon  her 
face,  and  paused. 

"You  are  trying  to  make  it  out  worse  than  it  is," 
he  said,  at  the  end  of  his  resources.  "I  promised 
to  give  her  the  money,  which  I  had  locked  in  the 
desk  in  the  library  for  safe-keeping,  and  asked  her 
to  come  get  it.  She  and  I  were  on  the  steps  when 
those  men  drove  up.  I  begged  her  to  run  up-stairs 
to  that  room.  I — I  locked  the  door  to — to  keep 
them  out  more  than  for — for  any  other,  reason." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  you  did,  Langdon  Chester,  and 
is  217 


Ann    Boyd 

you  took  her  shawl  for  the  same  reason  and  made 
the  poor,  helpless,  scared  thing  agree  to  wait  for  you. 
A  good  scamp  pleases  me  powerful,  but  you  are  too 
good  a  sample  for  any  use.  Get  the  shawl." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  misunderstood,"  Chester  said, 
in  an  all  but  conciliatory  tone,  as  he  took  a  slow, 
upward  step. 

"  Well,  you  bet  there's  no  danger  of  me  not  under- 
standing you,"  Ann  sneered.  "Get  that  shawl." 

Without  another  word  he  groped  up  the  dark 
steps.  Ann  heard  him  walking  about  on  the  floor 
above,  striking  matches  and  uttering  exclamations 
of  anger.  Presently  she  heard  him  coming.  When 
half-way  down  the  stairs  he  paused  and  threw  the 
shawl  to  her. 

"There  it  is,"  he' said,  sullenly.  "Leave  my  re- 
volver on  the  steps." 

Ann  caught  the  shawl,  which,  like  some  winged 
thing,  swooped  down  through  the  darkness,  and  the 
next  instant  she  had  lowered  the  hammer  of  the 
revolver  and  laid  it  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs. 

"All  right,  it's  an  even  swap,"  she  chuckled — 
"  your  gun  for  our  shawl.  Now  go  to  your  bed  and 
sleep  on  this.  It's  my  opinion  that,  bad  as  you  are, 
young  man,  I've  done  you  a  favor  to-night." 

"There's  one  thing  I'll  try  to  find  out,"  he  sum- 
moned up  retaliatory  courage  to  say,  "  and  that  is 
why  you  are  bothering  yourself  so  much  about  the 
daughter  of  a  woman  you  are  doing  all  you  can  to 
injure." 

Ann  laughed  from  the  door  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold,  the  shawl  under  her  arm.  "It  will  do 
you  good  to  study  on  that  problem,"  she  said. 

218 


Ann    Boyd 

"You  find  that  out,  and  I'll  pay  you  well  for  the 
answer.  I  don't  know  that  myself." 

From  the  window  of  his  room  above,  Langdon 
watched  her  as  she  passed  through  the  gate  and  dis- 
appeared on  the  lonely  road. 

"She  won't  tell  it,"  he  decided.  "She'll  keep 
quiet,  unless  it  is  her  plan  to  hold  it  over  Jane 
Hemingway.  That  may  be  it — and  yet  if  that  is 
so,  why  didn't  she — wait?" 


XXIII 

[HE  sun  had  just  risen  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  its  long,  red  streamers  were 
kindling  iridescent  fires  in  the  jewels 
of  dew  on  the  dying  grass  of  the  fields. 
White  mists,  like  tenderly  caressing 
clouds,  hung  along  the  rocky  sides  of  the  mountains. 
Ann  Boyd,  her  eyes  heavy  from  unwonted  loss  of 
sleep,  was  at  the  barn  feeding  her  horses  when  she 
saw  Virginia  coming  across  the  meadows.  "  She 
wants  her  shawl,  poor  thing!"  Ann  mused.  "I'll 
go  get  it." 

She  went  back  into  the  house  and  brought  it  out 
just  as  the  beautiful  girl  reached  the  barn -yard 
fence  and  stood  there  wordless,  timid,  and  staring. 
"You  see,  I  kept  my  word,"  the  elder  woman 
said,  with  an  effort  at  a  smile.  "  Here  is  your  shawl. " 
Virginia  reached  out  for  it.  She  said  nothing, 
simply  folding  the  shawl  on  her  arm  and  staring 
into  Ann's  eyes  with  a  woe-begone  expression.  She 
had  lost  her  usual  color,  and  there  were  black  rings 
round  her  wonderful  eyes  that  gave  them  more 
depth  and  seeming  mystery  than  ever." 

"I  hope  your  mother  wasn't  awake  last  night 
when  you  got  back,"  Ann  said. 

"No,  she  wasn't — she  was  sound  asleep,"  Vir- 
ginia said,  without  change  of  expression.     It  was  as 

220 


Ann    Boyd 

if,  in  her  utter  depression,  she  had  lost  all  individ- 
uality. 

"Then  she  don't  know,"  Ann  put  in. 

"No,  she  don't  suspect,  Mrs.  Boyd.  If  she  did, 
she'd  die,  and  so  would  I." 

' '  Well,  I  don't  see  as  she  is  likely  to  know — ever, 
as  long  as  she  lives,"  Ann  said,  in  a  crude  attempt 
at  comfort -giving." 

"I  fancied  you'd  want  her  to  know,"  said  the 
girl,  looking  at  Ann  frankly.  "After  I  thought  it 
over,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  maybe  you  did 
it  all  so  you  could  tell  her.  I  see  no  other  reason 
for — for  you  being  so — so  good  to — to  me." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I've  been  good  to  any- 
body." Ann's  color  was  rising  in  spite  of  her  cold 
exterior.  "But  we  won't  talk  about  that.  Though 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  child,  and  that  is  that  I'll 
never  tell  this  to  a  living  soul.  Nobody  but  you 
and  me  an'  that  trifling  scamp  will  ever  know  it. 
Now,  will  that  do  you  any  good?  It's  the  same, 
you  see,  as  if  it  had  never  really  taken  place." 

"But  it  did  take  place!"  Virginia  said,  despond- 
ently. 

"Oh  yes,  but  you  don't  know  when  you  are  in 
luck,"  Ann  said,  grimly.  "In  things  like  that  a 
miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile.  Study  my  life  awhile, 
and  you'll  fall  down  on  your  knees  and  thank  God 
for  His  mercy.  Huh,  child,  don't  be  silly!  I  know 
when  a  young  and  good-looking  girl  that  has  gone 
a  step  too  far  is  fortunate.  Look  here — changing 
the  subject — I  saw  your  mammy  standing  in  the 
back  door  just  now.  Does  she  know  you  left  the 
house?" 

221 


Ann   Boyd 

"Yes,  I  came  to  look  for  the  cow,"  said  Virginia. 

"Then  she  don't  suspicion  where  you  are  at," 
said  Ann.  "Now,  you  see,  she  may  have  noticed 
that  you  walked  off  without  a  shawl,  and  you'd 
better  not  wear  one  home.  Leave  it  with  me  and 
come  over  for  it  some  time  in  the  day  when  she 
won't  miss  you." 

"I  think  I'd  better  take  it  back,"  Virginia  replied. 
"She  wears  it  herself  sometimes  and  might  miss  it." 

' '  Oh,  I  see ! ' '  Ann's  brows  ran  together  reflective- 
ly. "Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Tote  it  under  your  arm 
till  you  get  near  the  house,  and  then  drop  it  some- 
where in  the  weeds  or  behind  the  ash-hopper,  and 
go  out  and  get  it  when  she  ain't  looking." 

"I'll  do  that,  then,"  the  girl  said,  wearily.  "I 
was  thinking,  Mrs.  Boyd,  that  not  once  last  night 
did  I  remember  to  thank  you  for — " 

"Oh,  don't  thank  me,  child!"  Had  Ann  been  a 
close  observer  of  her  own  idiosyncrasies,  her  unwary 
softness  of  tone  and  gentleness  to  a  daughter  of  her 
sworn  enemy  would  have  surprised  her.  "Don't 
thank  me,"  she  repeated.  "Thank  God  for  letting 
you  escape  the  lot  of  others  just  as  young  and 
unsuspecting  as  you  ever  were.  I  don't  deserve 
credit  for  what  I  done  last  night.  In  fact,  between 
you  and  me,  I  tried  my  level  best  not  to  interfere. 
Why  I  finally  gave  in  I  don't  know,  but  I  done  it, 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  done  it.  I  got  started 
and  couldn't  stop.  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Come  in  the  house  a  minute.  It  won't  take  long. 
Jane — your  mother — will  think  the  cow  has  strayed 
off,  but  there  stands  the  cow  in  the  edge  of  the 
swamp.  Come  on." 

222 


Ann   Boyd 

Dumbly,  Virginia  followed  into  the  house  and 
sank  into  a  chair,  holding  her  shapely  hands  in  her 
lap,  her  wealth  of  golden-brown  hair  massed  on  her 
head  and  exquisite  neck.  Ann  shambled  in  her 
untied,  dew-wet  shoes  to  the  fireplace  and  poured 
out  a  cup  of  coffee  from  a  tin  pot  on  the  coals. 

"Drink  this,"  she  said.  "If  what  I  hear  is  true, 
you  don't  get  any  too  much  to  eat  and  drink  over 
your  way." 

Virginia  took  it  and  sipped  it  daintily,  but  with 
evident  relish. 

"I  see  you  take  to  that,"  Ann  said,  unconscious 
of  the  genuine,  motherly  delight  she  was  betraying. 
"Here,  child,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
These  spiced  sausages  of  mine,  dry  as  powder  in  the 
corn-shuck,  are  the  best  and  sweetest  flavored  that 
ever  you  stuck  a  tooth  in.  They  fry  in  their  own 
grease  almost  as  soon  as  they  hit  a  hot  pan  when 
they  are  sliced  thin." 

"Oh  no,  I  thank  you,"  Virginia  protested;  "I 
really  couldn't." 

"But  I  know  you  can,"  Ann  insisted,  as  she  cut 
down  from  a  rafter  overhead  one  of  the  sausages 
and  deftly  sliced  it  in  a  pan  already  hot  on  the  coals. 
"You  needn't  tell  me  you  ain't  hungry.  I  can  see 
it  in  your  face.  Besides,  do  you  know  it's  a  strange 
fact  that  a  woman  will  eat  just  the  same  in  trouble 
as  out,  while  a  man's  appetite  is  gone  the  minute 
he's  worried?" 

The  girl  made  no  further  protest,  and  Ann  soon 
brought  some  hot  slices  of  the  aromatic  food,  with 
nicely  browned  toast,  and  placed  them  in  a  plate  in 
her  lap.  "  How  funny  all  this  seems!"  Ann  ran  on. 

223 


Ann    Boyd 

"Here  I  am  feeding  you  up  and  feeling  sorry  for 
you  when  only  last  night  I — well,  I've  got  to  talk 
to  you,  and  I'm  going  to  get  it  over  with.  I'll  have 
to  speak  of  the  part  of  my  life  that  has  been  the  cud 
for  every  idle  woman  in  these  mountains  to  chaw 
on  for  many,  many  years,  but  I'm  going  to  do  it, 
so  you  will  know  better  what  you  escaped  last  night ; 
but,  first  of  all,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  straight  question, 
and  I  don't  mean  no  harm  nor  to  be  meddling  where 
I  have  no  business.  I  want  to  know  if  you  love  this 
Langdon  Chester  as — well,  as  you've  always  fancied 
you'd  love  the  man  you  became  a  wife  to." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  on  the  part  of 
the  girl.  Her  cheeks  took  on  color;  she  broke  a 
bit  of  the  sausage  with  her  fork,  but  did  not  raise 
it  to  her  lips. 

"I'm  asking  you  a  simple,  plain  question,"  Ann 
reminded  her. 

"No,  I  don't,"  Virginia  answered,  haltingly; — 
"that  is,  not  now,  not— 

"Ah,  I  see!"  the  old  woman  cried.  "The  feel- 
ing died  just  as  soon  as  you  saw  straight  down  into 
his  real  nature,  just  as  soon  as  you  saw  that  he'd 
treat  you  like  a  slave,  that  he'd  abuse  you,  beat  you, 
lock  you  up,  if  necessary — in  fact,  do  anything  a 
brute  would  do  to  gain  his  aims." 

"I'm  afraid,  now,  that  I  never  really  loved  him," 
Virginia  said,  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"Humph!"  Ann  ejaculated.  "I  see.  Then  you 
went  all  the  way  over  that  lonely  road  to  his  house 
with  just  one  thought  in  your  mind,  and  that  was 
to  get  that  money  for  your  mother." 

"  As  God  is  my  Juc%e,  Mrs.  Boyd,  that's  all  I  went 
224 


Ann    Boyd 

for,"  Virginia  said,  her  earnest  eyes  staring  steadily 
at  her  companion. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  it  was  that  way,"  Ann  mused. 
"There  was  a  "time  when  I  thought  you  were  a 
silly  girl  whose  head  could  easily  be  turned,  but 
I've  been  hearing  fine  things  about  you,  and  I  see 
you  are  made  of  good,  solid,  womanly  stuff.  Now, 
I  want  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  and  then,  if  you 
want  to  consider  me  a  friend  and  a  well-wisher,  all 
right.  I'm  no  better  -  hearted  than  the  average 
mortal  woman.  The  truth  is,  Virginia  Hemingway, 
I  hate  your  mother  as  much  as  one  human  being 
can  hate  another  this  side  of  the  bad  place.  She's 
been  a  thorn  in  my  side  the  biggest  part  of  my  life. 
Away  back  when  I  was  about  your  age,  I  got  into 
just  such  a  tight  as  you  was  in  last  night.  For  a 
long  time  afterwards  I  was  nearly  crazy,  but  when 
the  prime  cause  of  my  trouble  went  off  and  married 
I  begun  to  try  to  live  again.  I  fell  in  love  with  a 
real  good-natured,  honest  man.  I  wanted  him  to 
know  the  truth,  but  I  never  knew  how  to  tell  him, 
and  so  I  kept  holding  off.  He  was  a  great  beau 
among  the  girls  of  that  day,  making  love  to  all  of 
them,  your  mother  among  the  rest.  Finally,  I  give 
in.  I  couldn't  resist  his  begging,  my  friends  ad- 
vised it,  and  me  and  him  was  married.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  your  mammy's  enmity.  It  kept 
up,  and  when  the  truth  about  me  finally  leaked  out 
she  saw  to  it  that  my  husband  would  not  overlook 
the  past — she  saw  to  it  that  I  was  despised,  kicked, 
and  sneered  at  by  the  community — and  my  husband 
left  with  my  only  child.  I  sent  up  a  daily  prayer  to 
be  furnished  with  the  means  for  revenge,  but  it 

225 


Ann    Boyd 

didn't  do  any  good,  and  then  I  got  to  begging  the 
devil  for  what  the  Lord  had  refused.  That  seemed 
to  work  better,  for  one  day  a  hint  came  to  me  that 
Langdon  Chester  was  on  your  trail.  That  gave  me 
the  first  glimpse  of  hope  of  solid  revenge  I'd  had. 
I  kept  my  eyes  and  ears  open  day  and  night.  I  saw 
your  doom  coming  —  I  lived  over  what  I'd  been 
through,  and  the  thought  that  you  were  to  go 
through  it  was  as  sweet  to  me  as  honey  in  the  comb. 
Finally  the  climax  arrived.  I  saw  you  on  the  way 
to  his  house  last  night,  and  understood  what  it 
meant.  I  was  squatting  down  behind  a  fence  at 
the  side  of  the  road.  I  saw  you  pass,  and  followed 
you  clean  to  the  gate,  and  then  turned  back,  at 
every  step  exulting  over  my  triumph.  The  very 
sky  overhead  was  ablaze  with  the  fire  of  your  fall 
to  my  level.  But  at  my  gate  I  was  halted  suddenly. 
Virginia — to  go  back  a  bit — there  is  a  certain  young 
man  in  this  world  that  I  reckon  is  the  only  human 
being  that  I  love.  I  love  him,  I  reckon,  because  he 
always  seemed  to  love  me,  and  believe  me  better 
than  I  am,  and,  more  than  that,  he  was  the  only 
person  that  ever  pointed  out  a  higher  life  to  me.  He 
was  the  poor  boy  that  I  educated,  and  who  went  off 
and  done  well,  and  has  just  come  back  to  this 
country." 

"Luke  King!"  Virginia  exclaimed,  softly,  and 
then  she  impulsively  placed  her  hand  on  her  lips 
and  sat  staring  at  the  speaker,  almost  breathlessly 
alert. 

"Yes,  Luke  King,"  said  Ann,  with  feeling. 
"Strange  to  say,  he  has  always  said  the  day  would 
come  when  I'd  rise  above  hatred  and  revenge;  he 

226 


Ann    Boyd 

has  learned  some  queer  things  in  the  West.  Well, 
last  night  when  I  met  him  he  said  he'd  come  up  to 
see  his  mother,  who  he  heard  was  a  little  sick,  but 
he  finally  admitted  that  her  sickness  wasn't  all 
that  fetched  him.  He  said  he  was  worried.  He 
was  more  downhearted  than  I  ever  saw  him  before. 
Virginia  Hemingway,  he  said  he  was  worried  about 
you." 

"About  me  f    Oh  no,"  Virginia  gasped. 

"Yes,  about  you,"  Ann  went  on.  "The  poor 
fellow  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  laid  bare  his 
whole  young  heart  to  me.  He'd  loved  you,  he  said, 
ever  since  you  was  a  little  girl.  He'd  taken  your 
sweet  face  off  with  him  on  that  long  stay,  and  it 
had  been  with  him  constantly.  It  was  on  your 
account  he  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  locate  in 
Georgia  again,  and  when  he  come  back  and  saw 
you  a  full-grown  woman  he  told  me  he  felt  that 
you  and  he  were  intended  for  one  another.  He  said 
he  knew  your  beautiful  character.  He  said  he'd 
been  afraid  to  mention  it  to  you,  seeing  you  didn't 
feel  the  same  way,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  wiser 
to  let  it  rest  awhile ;  but  then  he  learned  that  Lang- 
don  Chester  was  going  with  you,  and  he  got  wor- 
ried. He  was  afraid  that  Langdon  wouldn't  tote 
fair  with  you.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth, 
Virginia.  I  never  was  so  mad  in  all  my  life,  for 
there  I  was  right  at  that  minute  gloating  over  your 
ruin.  I  was  feeling  that  way  while  he  was  telling 
me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  voice,  that  if — if 
harm  came  to  a  hair  of  your  bonny  head  he'd  kill 
Langdon  Chester  in  cold  blood,  and  go  to  the  gal- 
lows with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  He  didn't  know 

227 


Ann   Boyd 

anything  wrong,  he  was  just  afraid — that  was  all, 
just  afraid — and  he  begged  me — just  think  of  it, 
me,  who  was  right  then  hot  with  joy  over  your 
plight — he  begged  me  to  see  you  some  day  soon 
and  try  to  get  you  to  care  for  him.  I  was  so  mad 
I  couldn't  speak,  and  he  went  off,  his  last  word  being 
that  he  knew  I  wouldn't  fail  him." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd,  I  can't  stand  this!"  Virginia 
bowed  her  head  and  began  to  sob.  "He  was  always 
a  good  friend,  but  I  never  dreamed  that  he  cared  for 
me  that  way,  and  now  he  thinks  that  I  —  thinks 
that  I— oh!" 

"Well,"  Ann  went  on,  disregarding  the  interrup- 
tion, "I  was  left  to  tussle  with  the  biggest  situa- 
tion of  my  life.  I  tried  to  fight  it.  I  laid  down 
to  sleep,  but  rolled  and  tossed,  unable  to  close  my 
eyes,  till  at  last,  as  God  is  my  Judge,  something  in- 
side of  me — a  big  and  swelling  something  I'd  never 
felt  before — picked  me  up  and  made  me  go  to  that 
house.  You  know  the  rest.  Instead  of  standing 
by  in  triumph  and  seeing  the  child  of  my  enemy 
swept  away  by  my  fate,  I  was  praying  God  to 
save  her.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  my  con- 
duct, even  now.  Last  night,  when  I  come  back  to 
my  house,  I  seemed  all  afire  with  feelings  like  none 
I  ever  had.  As  the  Lord  is  my  holy  Guide,  I  felt 
like  I  wished  I'd  comforted  you  more — wished  I'd 
taken  you  in  my  poor  old  arms  there  in  the  moon- 
light and  held  you  to  my  breast,  like  I  wish  some- 
body had  done  me  away  back  there  before  that 
dark  chasm  Opened  in  front  of  me.  I'm  talking  to 
you  now  as  I  never  dreamt  I  could  talk  to  a  female, 
much  less  a  daughter  of  Jane  Hemingway;  but  I 

228 


Ann    Boyd 

can't  help  it.  You  are  Luke's  chosen  sweetheart, 
and  to  cast  a  slur  on  you  for  what  took  place  last 
night  would  be  to  blight  my  own  eternal  chances  of 
salvation ;  for,  God  bless  your  gentle  little  soul,  you 
went  there  blinded  by  your  mother's  suffering,  an 
excuse  I  couldn't  make.  No,  there's  just  one  thing 
about  it.  Luke  is  right.  You  are  a  good,  noble 
girl,  and  you've  had  your  cross  to  bear,  and  I  want 
to  see  you  get  what  I  missed — a  long,  happy  life  of 
love  and  usefulness  in  this  world.  You  will  get  it 
with  Luke,  for  he  is  the  grandest  character  I  ever 
knew  or  heard  about.  I  don't  know  but  what  right 
now  it  is  his  influence  that 's  making  me  whirl  about 
this  odd  way.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
As  much  as  I  hate  your  mother,  I  almost  feel  like 
I  could  let  her  stand  and  abuse  me  to  my  face  and 
not  talk  back.  Now,  dry  your  eyes  and  finish  that 
sausage.  I  reckon  I  hain't  the  virago  and  spitfire 
you've  been  taught  to  think  I  am.  Most  of  us  are 
better  on  the  inside  than  out.  Stop — stop  now! 
crying  won't  do  any  good." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  Virginia  sobbed.  "You  are  so 
good  to  me,  and  to  think  that  it  was  from  my  mother 
that  you  got  all  your  abuse." 

"Well,  never  mind  about  that,"  Ann  said,  laying 
her  hand  almost  with  shamefaced  stealth  on  the 
girl's  head  and  looking  towards  the  swamp  through 
the  open  door.  ' '  I  see  your  cow  is  heading  for  home 
on  her  own  accord.  Follow  her.  This  is  our  se- 
cret ;  nobody  need  know  but  us  two.  Your  mammy 
would  have  you  put  in  a  house  of  detention  if  she 
knew  it.  Slip  over  and  see  me  again  when  her 
back  is  turned.  Lord,  Lord,  I  wonder  why  I  never 

229 


Ann    Boyd 

thought  about  pitying  you  all  along,  instead  of 
actually  hating  you  for  no  fault  of  yours!" 

Virginia  rose,  put  the  plate  on  the  table,  and,  with 
her  face  full  of  emotion,  she  impulsively  put  her 
arms  around  Ann's  neck. 

"You  are  the  best  woman  on  earth,"  she  said, 
huskily,  "and  I  love  you — I  can't  help  it.  I  love 
you." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  you  don't  do  that,"  Ann  said,  color- 
ing to  the  roots  of  her  heavy  hair.  "That  wouldn't 
be  possible." 

"But  I  do,  I  tell  you,  I  do,"  Virginia  said  again, 
"and  I'll  never  do  an  unwomanly  thing  again  in  my 
life.  But  I  don't  want  to  meet  Luke  King  again. 
I  couldn't  after  what  has  happened." 

"Oh,  you  let  that  take  care  of  itself,"  Ann  said, 
accompanying  Virginia  to  the  door. 

She  stood  there,  her  red  hands  folded  under  her 
apron,  and  watched  the  girl  move  slowly  across  the 
meadow  after  the  plodding  cow. 

"What  a  pretty  trick!"  Ann  mused.  "And  to 
think  she'd  actually  put  her  arms  round  my  old 
neck  and  hug  me,  and  say  she — oh,  that  was  odd, 
very,  very  odd!  I  don't  seem  to  be  my  own  boss 
any  longer." 

An  hour  later,  as  she  stood  in  her  front  porch 
cutting  the  dying  vines  from  the  strings  which  held 
them  upward,  she  saw  Mrs.  Waycroft  hastening 
along  the  road  towards  her.  "There,  I  clean  for- 
got that  woman,"  Ann  said,  her  brow  wrinkled. 
"She's  plumb  full  of  what  she  heard  that  scamp 
saying  to  Virginia  at  the  graveyard.  I'll  have  to 
switch  her  off  the  track  some  way,  the  Lord  only 

230 


Ann    Boyd 

knows  how,  but  off  she  goes,  if  I  have  to  lie  to  my 
best  friend  till  I'm  black  in  the  face." 

"I've  been  wanting  to  get  over  all  morning,"  the 
visitor  said,  as  she  opened  the  gate  and  hurried  in. 
"I  had  my  breakfast  two  hours  ago,  but  Sally  Hinds 
and  her  twro  children  dropped  in  and  detained  me. 
They  pretended  they  wanted  to  talk  about  the  next 
preaching,  but  it  was  really  to  get  something  to  eat. 
The  littlest  one  actually  sopped  the  gravy  from  the 
frying-pan  with  a  piece  of  bread-crust.  I  wanted 
to  slip  out  last  night  and  come  over  here  to  watch 
the  road  to  see  if  Virginia  Hemingway  kept  her 
promise,  but  just  about  that  hour  Jim  Dilk  —  he 
lives  in  my  yard,  you  know — he  had  a  spasm,  and 
we  all  thought  he  was  going  to  die." 

"Well,  I  reckon,"  Ann  said,  carelessly,  as  she 
pulled  at  a  rotten  piece  of  twine  supporting  a  dead 
vine,  and  broke  it  from  its  nail  under  the  eaves  of 
the  porch  —  "I  reckon  you'd  'a'  had  your  trip  for 
nothing,  and  maybe  feel  as  sneaking  about  it  as  I 
confess  I  do." 

"Sneaking?"  echoed  Mrs.  Waycroft. 

"Yes,  the  truth  is,  I  was  mean  enough,  Mary,  to 
hold  watch  on  the  road  in  that  chill  night  air,  and 
got  nothing  but  a  twitch  of  rheumatism  in  my  leg 
as  a  reward.  The  truth  is,  Virginia  Hemingway  is 
all  right.  She  wanted  that  money  bad  enough,  but 
it  was  just  on  old  Jane's  account,  and  she  wasn't 
going  to  be  led  into  sech  a  trap  as  that.  I  reckon 
Langdon  Chester  was  doing  most  of  the  talking  when 
you  saw  them  together.  She  may  be  flirting  a 
little  with  him,  as  most  any  natural  young  girl 
would,  but,  just  between  me  'n'  you — now,  see  that 

231 


Ann  Boyd 

this  goes  no  further,  Mary — there  is  a  big,  big  case 
up  between  Virginia  and  Luke  King." 

"You  don't  say !  How  did  you  drop  onto  that  ?" 
gasped  Mrs.  Waycroft. 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  at  liberty  exactly  to  tell  how 
I  got  onto  it,"  Ann  said,  pulling  at  another  piece 
of  twine;  "but  it  will  get  out  before  long.  Luke 
has  been  in  love  with  her  ever  since  she  wore  short 
dresses." 

"Huh,  that  is  a  surprise!"  said  Mrs.  Waycroft. 
"Well,  she  is  fortunate,  Ann.  He's  a  fine  young 
man." 


XXIV 

JOWARDS  sunset  that  afternoon,  as  Ann 
was  returning  from  her  cotton-house, 
she  came  upon  Virginia  in  a  thicket 
on  the  roadside  picking  up  pieces  of 
fallen  tree-branches  for  firewood.  Ann 
had  approached  from  the  rear,  and  Virginia  was 
unaware  of  her  nearness.  To  the  old  woman's  sur- 
prise, the  girl's  eyes  w~ere  red  from  weeping,  and 
there  was  a  droop  of  utter  despondency  on  her  as 
she  moved  about,  her  apron  full  of  sticks,  her 
glance  on  the  ground.  Ann  hesitated  for  a  min- 
ute, and  then  stepped  across  the  stunted  grass  and 
touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"What's  the  matter  now,  child?"  she  asked. 
The  girl  turned  suddenly  and  flushed  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair,  but  she  made  no  response. 

"What's  gone  wrong?"  Ann  pursued,  anxious- 
ly. "  Don't  tell  me  your  mother  has  found  out 
about — " 

"Oh  no,  it's  not  that,"  Virginia  said,  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  disengaged  hand.  "It's  not  that. 
I'm  just  miserable,  Mrs.  Boyd,  that's  all — thoroughly 
miserable.  You  mustn't  think  I'm  like  this  all  the 
time,  for  I'm  not.  I've  been  cheerful  at  home  all 
day — as  cheerful  as  I  could  be  under  the  circum- 
stances; but,  being  alone  out  here  for  the  first  time, 
16  233 


Ann   Boyd 

I  got  to  thinking  about  my  mother,  and  the  sadness 
of  it  all  was  too  much  for  me." 

"She  hain't  worse,  is  she?"  Ann  asked. 

"Not  that  anybody  could  see,  Mrs.  Boyd,"  the 
girl  replied;  "but  the  cancer  must  be  worse.  Two 
doctors  from  Springtown,  who  were  riding  by, 
stopped  to  ask  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  my  uncle 
told  them  about  mother's  trouble.  It  looked  like 
they  just  wanted  to  see  it  out  of  professional  curios- 
ity, for  when  they  heard  we  had  no  money  and  were 
deeply  in  debt  they  didn't  offer  any  advice.  But 
they  looked  very  much  surprised  when  they  made 
an  examination,  and  it  was  plain  that  they  didn't 
think  she  had  much  chance.  My  mother  was  watch- 
ing their  faces,  and  knew  what  they  thought,  and 
when  they  had  gone  away  she  fairly  collapsed.  I 
never  heard  such  pitiful  moaning  in  all  my  life. 
She  is  more  afraid  of  death  than  any  one  I  ever  saw, 
and  she  just  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  prayed  for 
mercy.  Oh,  it  was  awful!  awful!  Then  my  uncle 
came  in  and  said  the  doctors  had  said  the  specialist 
in  Atlanta  could  really  cure  her,  if  she  had  the 
means  to  get  the  treatment,  and  that  made  her 
more  desperate.  From  praying  she  turned  almost 
to  cursing  in  despair.  My  uncle  is  usually  indiffer- 
ent about  most  matters,  but  the  whole  thing  almost 
made  him  sick.  He  went  out  to  the  side  of  the 
house  to  keep  from  hearing  her  cries.  Some  of  his 
friends  came  along  the  road  and  joked  with  him,  but 
he  never  spoke  to  them.  He  told  me  there  was 
a  young  doctor  at  Barley  who  was  willing  to 
operate  on  her,  but  that  he  would  be  doing  it 
only  as  an  experiment,  and  that  nobody  but 

234 


Ann    Boyd 

the  Atlanta  specialist  would  be  safe  in  such  a 
case." 

"And  the  cost,  if  I  understood  right,"  said  Ann — 
"the  cost,  first  and  last,  would  foot  up  to  about  a 
hundred  dollars." 

"Yes,  that's  what  it  would  take,"  Virginia  sighed. 

Ann's  brow  was  furrowed;  her  eyes  flashed  remi- 
niscent ly.  "  She  ought  to  have  been  laying  by  some- 
thing all  along,"  she  said,  "instead  of  making  it 
her  life  business  to  harass  and  pull  down  a  person 
that  never  did  her  no  harm." 

"Don't  say  anything  against  her!"  Virginia  flared 
up.  "If  you  do,  I  shall  be  sorry  I  said  what  I  did 
this  morning.  You  have  been  kind  to  me,  but  not 
to  her,  and  she  is  my  mother,  who  is  now  lying  at 
the  point  of  death  begging  for  help  that  never  will 
come." 

Ann  stared  steadily,  and  then  her  lashes  began  to 
flicker.  "I  don't  know  but  I  think  more  of  you  for 
giving  me  that  whack,  my  girl,"  she  said,  simply. 
"I  deserve  it.  I've  got  no  right  on  earth  to  abuse 
a  mother  to  her  only  child,  much  less  a  mother  in 
the  fix  yours  is  in.  No,  I  went  too  far,  my  child. 
You  are  not  in  the  fight  between  me  and  her." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  be  in  it,  when  she's 
down,"  said  Virginia,  warmly. 

"Well,  I  am,"  Ann  admitted.  "I  am.  Come  on 
to  my  gate  with  me.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  There 
is  a  lot  of  loose  wood  lying  about  up  there,  and  you 
are  welcome  to  all  you  pick  up;  so  you  won't  be 
losing  time." 

With  her  apron  drawn  close  up  under  her  shapely 
chin,  her  eyes  still  red  and  her  cheeks  damp,  Virginia 

235 


Ann   Boyd 

obeyed.  If  she  had  been  watching  her  companion 
closely,  she  might  have  wondered  over  the  strange 
expression  of  Ann's  face.  Now  and  then,  as  she 
trudged  along,  kicking  up  the  back  part  of  her  heavy 
linsey  skirt  in  her  sturdy  strides,  a  shudder  would 
pass  over  her  and  a  weighty  sigh  of  indecision  escape 
her  big  chest. 

"To  think  this  would  come  to  me!"  she  muttered 
once.  "Me!  God  knows  it  looks  like  my  work 
t'other  night  was  far  enough  out  of  my  regular 
track  without — huh!" 

Reaching  the  gate,  she  told  Virginia  to  wait  a 
minute  at  the  fence  till  she  went  into  the  house. 
She  was  gone  several  minutes,  during  which  time 
the  wondering  girl  heard  her  moving  about  within ; 
then  she  appeared  in  the  doorway,  almost  pale,  a 
frown  on  her  strong  face. 

"Look  here,  child,"  she  said,  coming  out  and 
leaning  her  big,  bare  elbows  on  the  top  rail  of  the 
fence,  "I've  thought  this  all  over  and  over  till  my 
head  spins  like  a  top,  and  I  can  see  but  one  way  for 
your  mother  to  get  out  of  her  trouble.  I'm  the 
greatest  believer  you  ever  run  across  of  every  human 
being  doing  his  or  her  full  duty  in  every  case.  Now, 
strange  as  it  may  sound,  I  left  my  home  last  night 
and  deliberately  made  it  my  special  business  to  step 
in  between  you  and  the  only  chance  of  getting  the 
money  your  mother  stands  in  need  of.  I  thought 
I  was  doing  what  was  right,  and  I  still  believe  I  was, 
as  far  as  it  went,  but  I  was  on  the  point  of  making 
a  botched  job  of  it.  I'd  get  mighty  few  thanks,  I 
reckon,  for  saving  you  from  the  clutches  of  that 
scamp  if  I  left  your  mother  to  die  in  torment  of 

236 


Ann    Boyd 

body  and  soul.  So,  as  I  say,  there  ain't  but  one 
way  out  of  it." 

Ann  paused;  she  was  holding  something  tightly 
clasped  in  her  hand,  and  not  looking  at  Vir- 
ginia. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  the  girl 
said,  wonderingly.  "If  you  see  any  way  out,  it  is 
more  than  I  can." 

"Well,  your  mother's  got  to  go  to  Atlanta,"  Ann 
said,  sheepishly;  "and,  as  I  see  it,  there  isn't  but 
one  person  whose  duty  it  is  to  put  up  the  cash  for 
it,  and  that  person  -is  me." 

"You?     Oh  no,  Mrs.  Boyd!" 

"But  I  know  better,  child.  The  duty  has  come 
on  me  like  a  load  of  bricks  dumped  from  a  wagon. 
The  whole  thing  has  driven  me  slap-dab  in  a  corner. 
I  know  when  I'm  whipped — that's  one  of  the  things 
that  has  helped  me  along  in  a  moneyed  way  in  this 
life — it  was  always  knowing  when  to  let  up.  I've 
got  to  wave  the  white  flag  in  this  battle  till  my 
enemy's  on  her  feet,  then  the  war  may  go  on. 
But"  —  Ann  opened  her  hand  and  displayed  the 
bills  she  was  holding — ' '  take  this  money  home  with 
you." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd,  I  couldn't  think  of—" 

"Well,  don't  think  about  it ;  take  it  on,  and  don't 
argue  with  a  woman  older  than  you  are,  and  who 
knows  better  when  and  how  a  thing  has  to  be 
done." 

Most  reluctantly  Virginia  allowed  Ann  to  press 
the  money  into  her  unwilling  hand.  "But  remem- 
ber this,"  Ann  said,  firmly:  "Jane  Hemingway 
must  never  know  where  you  got  it — never!  Do 

237 


Ann  Boyd 

you  understand?  It  looks  like  I  can  stand  most 
anything  better  than  letting  that  woman  know  I 
put  up  money  on  this;  besides,  bad  off  as  she  is, 
she'd  peg  out  before  she'd  let  me  help  her." 

Virginia's  face  was  now  aflame  with  joy.  "I  tell 
you  what  I'll  do,"  she  said.  "I'll  accept  it  as  a 
loan,  and  I'll  pay  it  back  some  day  if  I  have  to 
work  my  hands  to  the  bone." 

"Well,  you  can  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  Ann 
said.  "The  only  thing  I  absolutely  insist  on  is 
that  she  isn't  told  who  sent  it.  It  wouldn't  be  hard 
to  keep  her  in  the  dark ;  if  you'll  promise  me  right 
here,  on  your  word,  not  to  tell,  then  you  can  say  you 
gave  your  sacred  promise  to  that  effect,  and  that 
would  settle  it." 

"Well,  I'll  do  that,"  Virginia  finally  agreed.  "I 
know  I  can  do  that." 

"All  right,"  Ann  said.  "It  may  set  the  old 
thing  to  guessing  powerful,  and  she  may  bore  you 
to  tell,  promise  or  no  promise,  but  she'll  never 
suspicion  me — never  while  the  sun  shines  from  the 
sky." 

"No,  she  won't  suspect  you,"  Virginia  admitted, 
and  with  a  grateful,  backward  look  she  moved 
away. 

Ann  stood  leaning  against  the  fence,  her  eyes  on 
the  receding  figure  as  the  girl  moved  along  the  sun- 
lit road  towards  the  dun  cottage  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mountain. 

"I  reckon  I'm  a  born  idiot,"  she  said;  "but  there 
wasn't  no  other  way  out  of  it — no  other  under  the 
sun.  I  got  my  foot  in  it  when  I  laid  in  wait  watch- 
ing for  the  girl  to  walk  into  that  trap.  If  I  hadn't 

238 


Ann    Boyd 

been  so  eager  for  that,  I  could  have  left  Jane  Hem- 
ingway to  her  fate.  Good  Lord,  if  this  goes  on, 
I'll  soon  be  bowing  and  scraping  at  that  old  hag's 
feet — me!  huh!  when  it's  been  her  all  this  time  that 
has  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  devilment." 


XXV 

JURING  this  talk  Jane  Hemingway 
9  had  gone  out  to  the  fence  to  speak  to 
Dr.  Evans,  who  had  passed  along  the 
road,  a  side  of  bacon  on  his  left  shoul- 
der, and  she  came  back,  and  with  a 
ow  groan  sat  down.  Sam  Hemingway,  who  sat 
near  the  fire,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sniffed. 
"You  are  making  too  much  of  a  hullabaloo  over  it," 
he  said.  "I've  been  thinking  about  the  matter  a 
lots,  and  I've  come  to  the  final  conclusion  that 
you  are  going  it  entirely  too  heavy,  considering  the 
balance  of  us.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child,  born 
and  unborn,  is  predestinated  to  die,  and  them  that 
meet  their  fate  graceful  -  like  are  the  right  sort. 
Seeing  you  takin'  on  after  them  doctors  left  actual- 
ly turned  me  sick  at  the  stomach,  and  that  ain't 
right.  I'll  be  sick  enough  when  my  own  time  comes, 
I  reckon,  without  having  to  go  through  separate 
spells  for  all  my  kin  by  marriage  every  time  they 
have  a  little  eruption  break  out  on  them.  Then 
here's  Virginia  having  her  bright  young  life  blighted 
when  it  ought  to  be  all  sunshine  and  roses,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  quote  the  poets.  I'll  bet  when  you 
was  a  young  girl  your  cheeks  wasn't  kept  wet  as 
a  dish-rag  by  a  complaining  mother.  No,  what 

240 


Ann   Boyd 

you've  got  to  do,  Sister  Jane,  is  to  pucker  up  cour- 
age and  face  the  music — be  resigned." 

"Resigned!  I  say,  resigned!"  was  the  rebellious 
reply — "I  say,  resigned!  with  a  slow  thing  like  this 
eating  away  at  my  vitals  and  nothing  under  high 
heaven  to  make  it  let  go.  You  can  talk,  sitting 
there  with  a  pipe  in  your  mouth,  and  every  limb 
sound,  and  a  long  life  ahead  of  you." 

"But  you  are  openly  disobeying  Biblical  injunc- 
tion," said  Sam,  knocking  his  exhausted  pipe  on 
the  heel  of  his  shoe.  "You  are  kicking  agin  the 
pricks.  All  of  us  have  to  die,  and  you  are  raising 
a  racket  because  your  turn  is  somewhere  in  sight. 
You  are  kicking  agin  something  that's  as  natural 
as  a  child  coming  into  the  world.  Besides,  you  are 
going  back  on  what  you  preach.  You  are  eternally 
telling  folks  there's  a  life  in  front  of  us  that  beats 
this  one  all  hollow,  and,  now  that  Providence  has 
really  blessed  you  by  giving  you  a  chance  to  sorter 
peep  ahead  at  the  pearly  gates,  you  are  actually 
balking  worse  than  a  mean  mule.  I  say  you  ought 
to  give  me  and  Virginia  a  rest.  If  you  can't  pos- 
sibly raise  the  scads  to  pay  for  having  the  thing  cut 
out,  then  pucker  up  and  grin  and  bear  it.  Folks 
will  think  a  sight  more  of  you.  Being  a  baby  at 
both  ends  of  life  is  foolish  —  there  ain't  nobody 
willing  to  do  the  nursing  the  second  time." 

"I  want  you  to  hush  all  that  drivel,  Sam,"  the 
widow  retorted.  "I  reckon  folks  are  different. 
Some  are  born  with  a  natural  dread  of  death,  and 
it  was  always  in  my  family.  I  stood  over  my  mother 
and  watched  her  breathe  her  last,  and  it  went  aw- 
fully hard  with  her.  She  begged  and  begged  for 

241 


Ann    Boyd 

somebody  to  save  her,  even  sitting  up  in  bed  while 
all  the  neighbors  were  crouched  about  crying  and 
praying,  and  yelled  out  to  them  to  stop  that  and  do 
something.  We'd  called  in  every  doctor  for  forty 
miles  about,  and  she  had  somehow  heard  of  a  young 
one  away  off,  and  she  was  calling  out  his  name  when 
she  fell  back  and  died." 

"Well,  she  must  have  had  some  load  on  her  mind 
that  she  wasn't  ready  to  dump  at  the  throne,"  said 
Sam,  without  a  hint  of  humor  in  his  drawling  voice. 
"I've  always  understood  your  folks,  in  the  woman 
line  at  least,  was  unforgiving.  They  say  forgive- 
ness is  the  softest  pillow  to  expire  on.  I  dunno, 
I've  never  tried  it." 

"I'm  miserable,  simply  miserable!"  groaned  Jane. 
"Dr.  Evans  has  just  been  to  Darley.  He  promised 
to  see  if  any  of  my  old  friends  would  lend  me  the 
money,  but  he  says  nobody  had  a  cent  to  spare." 

"Folks  never  have  cash  for  an  investment  of  that 
sort,"  answered  Sam.  "I  fetched  up  your  case  to 
old  Milward  Dedham  at  the  store  the  other  day. 
He'd  just  sold  five  thousand  acres  of  wild  moun- 
tain land  to  a  Boston  man  for  the  timber  that  was 
on  it,  and  was  puffed  up  powerful.  I  thought  if 
ever  a  man  would  be  prepared  to  help  a  friend  he 
would.  'La  me,  Sam,'  said  he,  'you  are  wasting 
time  trying  to  keep  a  woman  from  pegging  out 
when  wheat's  off  ten  cents  a  bushel.  Any  woman 
ought  to  be  happy  lying  in  a  grave  that  is  paid 
for  sech  times  as  these." 

The  widow  was  really  not  listening  to  Sam's  talk. 
With  her  bony  elbows  on  her  knee,  her  hand  in- 
tuitively resting  on  the  painless  and  yet  insistent 

242 


Ann   Boyd 

seat  of  her  trouble,  she  rocked  back  and  forth,  sigh- 
ing and  moaning.  There  was  a  clicking  of  the  gate- 
latch,  a  step  on  the  gravelled  walk,  and  Virginia, 
flushed  from  exercise  in  the  cool  air,  came  in  and 
emptied  her  apron  in  the  chimney  corner,  from  which 
her  uncle  lazily  dragged  his  feet.  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  critically  scanned  the  heap  of  wood. 

"You've  got  some  good,  rich,  kindling  pine  there, 
Virginia,"  he  drawled  out.  "But  you  needn't 
bother  after  to-day,  though.  I'll  have  my  wagon 
back  from  the  shop  to-morrow,  and  Simpson  has 
promised  to  lend  me  his  yoke  of  oxen,  and  let  me 
haul  some  logs  from  his  hill.  Most  of  it  is  good, 
seasoned  red  oak,  and  when  it  gets  started  to  burn- 
ing it  pops  like  a  pack  of  fire-crackers." 

Virginia  said  nothing.  Save  for  the  firelight, 
which  was  a  red  glow  from  live  coals,  rather  than 
any  sort  of  flame,  the  big  room  was  dark,  and  her 
mother  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  Sam  had  his 
eyes  on  her  over  his  left  shoulder. 

"Your  mother  has  been  keeping  up  the  same  old 
song  and  dance,"  he  said,  dryly;  "so  much  so 
that  she's  clean  forgot  living  folks  want  to  eat  at 
stated  times.  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  make  the 
bread  and  fry  what  bacon  is  left  on  that  strip  of 
skin." 

Virginia  said  nothing  to  him,  for  her  glance  was 
steadily  resting  on  her  mother's  despondent  form. 
"Mother,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering,  almost  frightened 
tone,  for  she  had  been  accustomed  to  no  sort  of 
deception  in  her  life,  and  the  part  she  was  to  play 
was  a  most  repellent  one — "mother,  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  and  I  hardly  know  how  to  do  it. 

243 


Ann   Boyd 

Down  the  road  just  a  while  ago  I  met  a  friend — a 
person  who  told  me — the  person  told  me — ' 

"Well,  what  did  the  person  tell  you?"  Sam  asked, 
as  both  he  and  the  bowed  wreck  at  the  fire  stared 
through  the  red  glow. 

"The  person  wants  to  help  you  out  of  trouble, 
mother,  and  gave  me  the  hundred  dollars  you  need. 
Before  I  got  it  I  had  to  give  my  sacred  word  of 
honor  that  I'd  never  let  even  you  know  who  sent 
it.  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do,  but  I  thought  per- 
haps I  ought  to— 

"What?  You  mean  —  oh,  Virginia,  you  don't 
mean — "  Jane  began,  as  she  rose  stiffly,  her  scrawny 
hand  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  took  a  step  towards 
her  almost  shrinking  daughter. 

"Here's  the  money,  mother,"  Virginia  said,  hold- 
ing out  the  roll  of  bills,  now  damp  and  packed  close 
together  by  her  warm,  tense  fingers.  "That's  all 
I  am  allowed  to  tell  you.  I  had  to  promise  not  to 
let  you  know  who  sent  it." 

As  if  electrified  from  death  to  life,  Jane  Heming- 
way sprang  forward  and  took  the  money  into  her 
quivering  fingers.  "A  light,  Sam!"  she  cried. 
"  Make  a  light,  and  let  me  see.  If  the  child's  plumb 
crazy  I  want  to  know  it,  and  have  it  over  with. 
Oh,  my  Lord!  Don't  fool  me,  Virginia.  Don't 
raise  my  hopes  with  any  trick  anybody  wants  to 
play." 

With  far  more  activity  than  was  his  by  birth, 
Sam  stood  up,  secured  a  tallow  candle  from  the 
mantel-piece,  and  bent  over  the  coals. 

"Crazy?"  he  said.  "I  know  the  girl's  crazy,  if 
she  says  there's  any  human  being  left  on  the  earth 

244 


Ann    Boyd 

after  Noah's  flood  who  gives  away  money  without 
taking  a  receipt  for  it — to  say  nothing  of  a  double, 
iron-clad  mortgage." 

"It  looks  and  feels  like  money!"  panted  the  wid- 
ow. "Hurry  up  with  the  light.  I  wonder  if  my 
prayer  has  been  heard  at  last." 

"Hearing  it  and  answering  are  two  different 
things;  the  whole  neighborhood  has  heard  it  often 
enough,"  growled  Sam,  as  he  fumed  impatiently 
over  the  hot  coals,  fairly  hidden  in  a  stifling  cloud 
of  tallow-smoke. 

"Here's  a  match,"  said  Virginia,  who  had  found 
one  near  the  clock,  and  she  struck  it  on  the  top  of 
one  of  the  dog-irons,  and  applied  it  to  the  dripping 
wick.  At  the  same  instant  the  hot  tallow  in  the 
coals  and  ashes  burst  into  flame,  lighting  up  every 
corner  and  crevice  of  the  great,  ill-furnished  room. 
Sam,  holding  the  candle,  bent  over  Jane's  hands 
as  they  nervously  fumbled  the  money. 

"Ten-dollar  bills!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  count  'em, 
Sam!  I  can't.  They  stick  together,  she's  wadded 
'em  so  tight." 

With  almost  painful  deliberation  Sam  counted 
the  money,  licking  his  rough  thumb  as  he  raised 
each  bill. 

"It's  a  hundred  dollars  all  right  enough,"  he 
said,  turning  the  roll  over  to  his  sister-in-law. 
"The  only  thing  that's  worrying  me  is  who's  had 
sech  a  sudden  enlargement  of  the  heart  in  this 
section." 

"Virginia,  who  gave  you  this  money?"  Mrs. 
Hemingway  asked,  her  face  abeam,  her  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  joy. 

245 


"  I  told  you  I  was  bound  by  a  promise  not  to  tell 
you  or  anybody  else,"  Virginia  awkwardly  replied, 
as  she  avoided  their  combined  stare. 

"Oh,  I  smell  a  great  big  dead  rat  under  the  barn!" 
Sam  laughed.  "I'd  bet  my  Sunday-go-to-meeting 
hat  I  know  who  sent  it." 

"  You  do  ?"  exclaimed  the  widow.  "  Who  do  you 
think  it  was,  Sam?" 

"Why,  the  only  chap  around  about  here  that 
seems  to  have  wads  of  cash  to  throw  at  cats,"  Sam 
laughed.  "He  pitched  one  solid  roll  amounting  to 
ten  thousand  at  his  starving  family  awhile  back. 
Of  course,  he  did  this,  too.  He  always  did  have 
a  hankering  for  Virginia,  anyway.  Hain't  I  seen 
them  two — ' 

"He  didn't  send  it!"  Virginia  said,  impulsively. 
"There!  I  didn't  intend  to  set  you  guessing,  and 
after  this  I'll  never  answer  one  way  or  the  other. 
I  didn't  know  whether  I  ought  to  take  it  on  those 
conditions  or  not,  but  I  couldn't  see  mother  suffer- 
ing when  this  would  help  her  so  much." 

"No,  God  knows  I'm  glad  you  took  it,"  said  Jane, 
slowly,  "even  if  I'm  never  to  know.  I'm  sure  it  was 
a  friend,  for  nobody  but  a  friend  would  care  that 
much  to  help  me  out  of  trouble." 

"You  bet  it  was  a  friend,"  said  Sam,  "unless  it 
was  some  thief  trying  to  get  rid  of  some  marked 
bills  he's  hooked  some'r's.  Now,  Virginia,  for  the 
love  of  the  Lord,  get  something  ready  to  eat. 
For  a  family  with  a  hundred  dollars  in  hand, 
we  are  the  nighest  starvation  of  any  I  ever  heard 
of." 

While  the  girl  was  busy  preparing  the  corn-meal 

246 


Ann  Boyd 

dough  in  a  wooden  bread-tray,  her  mother  walked 
about  excitedly. 

"I'll  go  to  Darley  in  the  hack  in  the  morning," 
she  said,  "and  right  on  to  Atlanta  on  the  even- 
ing train.  I  feel  better  already.  Dr.  Evans  says  I 
won't  suffer  a  particle  of  pain,  and  will  come  back 
weighing  more  and  with  a  better  appetite." 

"Well,  I  believe  I'd  not  put  myself  out  to  im- 
prove on  mine,"  said  Sam,  "unless  this  person  who 
is  so  flush  with  boodle  wants  to  keep  up  the  good 
work.  Dern  if  I  don't  believe  I'll  grow  me  a  can- 
cer, and  talk  about  it  till  folks  pay  me  to  hush." 


XXVI 

JT  was  one  fairly  warm  evening,  three 
days  after  Jane  had  left  for  Atlanta. 
Virginia  had  given  Sam  his  supper, 
and  he  had  strolled  off  down  to  the 
store  with  his  pipe.  Then,  with  a 
light  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  the  girl  sat  in  the 
bright  moonlight  on  the  porch.  She  had  not  been 
there  long  when  she  saw  a  man  on  a  horse  in  the 
road  reining  in  at  the  gate.  Even  before  he  dis- 
mounted she  had  recognized  him.  It  was  Luke 
King.  Hardly  knowing  why  she  did  so,  she  sprang 
up  and  was  on  the  point  of  disappearing  in  the 
house,  when,  in  a  calm  voice,  he  called  out  to  her: 
"Wait,  Virginia!  Don't  run.  I  have  a  message 
for  you." 

"For  me?"  she  faltered,  and  with  unaccountable 
misgivings  she  stood  still. 

Throwing  the  bridle-rein  over  the  gate-post,  he 
entered  the  yard  and  came  towards  her,  his  big 
felt-hat  held  easily  in  his  hand,  his  fine  head  show- 
ing to  wonderful  advantage  in  the  moonlight. 

' '  You  started  to  run, ' '  he  laughed.  ' '  You  needn't 
deny  it.  I  saw  you,  and  you  knew  who  it  was,  too. 
Just  think  of  my  little  friend  dodging  whenever  she 
sees  me.  Well,  I  can't  help  that.  It  must  be  nat- 
ural. You  were  always  timid  with  me,  Virginia." 

248 


Ann    Boyd 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  have  a  chair?"  she  re- 
turned. "Mother  has  gone  away  to  Atlanta,  and 
there  is  no  one  at  home  but  my  uncle  and  me." 

"  I  knew  she  was  down  there,"  King  said,  feasting 
his  hungry  and  yet  gentle  and  all  -  seeing  eyes  on 
her.  "That's  what  I  stopped  to  speak  to  you 
about.  She  sent  you  a  message." 

"Oh,  you  saw  her,  then!"  Virginia  said,  more  at 
ease. 

"Yes,  I  happened  to  be  at  the  big  Union  car-shed 
when  her  train  came  in,  and  saw  her  in  the  crowd. 
The  poor  woman  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn, 
and  I  really  believe  she  was  afraid  she'd  get  lost 
or  stolen,  or  something  as  bad.  When  she  saw  me 
she  gave  a  glad  scream  and  fairly  tumbled  into  my 
arms.  She  told  me  where  she  wanted  to  go,  and  I 
got  a  cab  and  saw  her  safe  to  the  doctor's." 

"Oh,  that  was  very  good  of  you!"  Virginia  said. 
"I'm  so  glad  you  met  her." 

"She  was  in  splendid  spirits,  too,  when  I  last 
saw  her,"  King  went  on.  "I  dropped  in  there  this 
morning  before  I  left,  so  that  I  could  bring  you  the 
latest  news.  She  was  very  jolly,  laughing  and  jok- 
ing about  everything.  The  doctor  had  not  had 
time  to  make  an  examination,  but  he  has  a  way  of 
causing  his  patients  to  look  on  the  bright  side. 
He  told  her  she  had  nothing  really  serious  to  fear, 
and  it  took  a  big  load  off  her  mind." 

They  were  now  in  the  house,  and  Virginia  had 
lighted  a  candle  and  he  had  taken  a  seat  near  the 
open  door. 

"Doctors  have  a  way  of  pretending  to  be  cheer- 
ful, even  before  very  serious  operations,  haven't 

17  249 


Ann    Boyd 

they?"  she  asked,  as  she  sat  down  not  far  from 
him. 

She  saw  him  hesitate,  as  if  in  consideration  of 
her  feelings,  and  then  he  said,  "Yes,  I  believe  that, 
too,  Virginia;  still,  he  is  a  wonderful  man,  and  if 
any  one  can  do  your  mother  good  he  can." 

"If  anybody  can? — yes,"  she  sighed. 

"You  mustn't  get  blue,"  he  said,  consolingly; 
"and  yet  how  can  you  well  help  it,  here  almost  by 
yourself,  with  your  mother  away  under  such  sad 
circumstances  ?" 

"Your  own  mother  was  not  quite  well  recently," 
Virginia  said,  considerately.  "I  hope  she  is  no 
worse." 

"Oh,  she's  on  her  feet  again,"  he  laughed,  "as 
lively  as  a  cricket,  moving  about  bossing  that  big 
place." 

"Why,  I  thought,  seeing  you  back  so — so  soon," 
the  girl  stammered;  "I  thought  that  you  had  per- 
haps heard — " 

"That  she  was  sick  again?  Oh  no!"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  then  he  saw  her  drift  and  paused,  and, 
flushed  and  embarrassed,  sat  staring  at  the  floor. 

"You  didn't — surely  you  didn't  come  all  the  way 
here  to  —  to  tell  me  about  my  mother!"  Virginia 
cried,  "when  you  have  important  work  to  do. down 
there?" 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  on  his  part; 
then  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  frankly  into  her 
eyes. 

"What's  the  use  of  denying  it?"  he  said.  "I 
don't  believe  in  deception,  even  in  small  things.  It 
never  does  any  good.  I  did  have  work  to  do  down 

250 


Ann    Boyd 

there,  but  I  couldn't  go  on  with  it,  Virginia,  while 
you  were  here  brooding  as  you  are  over  your 
mother's  condition.  So  I  stayed  at  my  desk  till 
the  north-bound  train  was  ready  to  pull  out.  Then 
I  made  a  break  for  it,  catching  the  last  car  as  it 
whizzed  past  the  crossing  near  the  office.  The 
train  was  delayed  on  the  way  up,  and  after  I  got 
to  Darley  I  was  afraid  I  couldn't  get  a  horse  at  the 
stable  and  get  here  before  you  were  in  bed ;  but  you 
see  I  made  it.  Sam  Hicks  will  blow  me  up  about 
the  lather  his  mare  is  in.  I  haven't  long  to  stay 
here,  either,  for  I  must  get  back  to  Darley  to  catch 
the  ten-forty.  I'll  reach  the  office  about  four  in 
the  morning,  if  I  can  get  the  conductor  to  slow  up 
in  the  Atlanta  switch-yard  for  me  to  hop  off  at  the 
crossing." 

"And  you  did  all  that  simply  to  tell  me  about  my 
mother?"  Virginia  said.  "Why,  she  could  have 
written." 

"Yes,  but  seeing  some  one  right  from  the  spot  is 
more  satisfying,"  he  said,  with  embarrassed  light- 
ness. "I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  she  was,  and  I'm 
glad,  whether  you  are  or  not." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  from  her,"  said  Virginia.  "It 
is  only  because  I  did  not  want  to  put  you  to  so 
much  trouble." 

"Don't  bother  about  that,  Virginia.  I'd  gladly 
do  it  every  night  in  the  week  to  keep  you  from 
worrying.  Do  you  remember  the  day,  long  ago, 
that  I  came  to  you  down  at  the  creek  and  told  you 
I  was  dissatisfied  with  things  here,  and  was  going 
away  off  to  begin  the  battle  of  life  in  earnest?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  Virginia  answered,  almost 
251 


Ann   Boyd 

oblivious  of  the  clinging,  invisible  current  which 
seemed  to  be  sweeping  them  together. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  if  to  take  in  courage  for 
what  he  had  to  say,  and  then  went  on: 

"You  were  only  a  little  girl  then,  hardly  thirteen, 
and  yet  to  me,  Virginia,  you  were  a  woman  capable 
of  the  deepest  feeling.  I  never  shall  forget  how  you 
rebuked  me  about  leaving  my  mother  in  anger.  You 
looked  at  me  as  straight  and  frank  as  starbeams, 
and  told  me  you'd  not  desert  your  mother  in  her 
old  age  for  all  the  world.  I  never  forgot  what  you 
said  and  just  the  way  you  said  it,  and  through  all 
my  turbulent  life  out  West  your  lecture  was  con- 
stantly before  me.  I  was  angry  at  my  mother,  but 
finally  I  got  to  looking  at  her  marriage  differently, 
and  then  I  began  to  want  to  see  her  and  to  do  my 
filial  duty  as  you  were  doing  yours.  That  was 
one  reason  I  came  back  here.  The  other  was  be- 
cause— Virginia,  it  was  because  I  wanted  to  see 
you." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't  begin—  '  but  Virginia's  pro- 
test died  away  in  her  pulsing  throat.  She  lowered 
her  head  and  covered  her  hot  face  with  her  hands. 

"But  I  have  begun,  and  I  must  go  on,"  he  said. 
"Out  West  I  met  hundreds  of  attractive  women, 
but  I  could  never  look  upon  them  as  other  men  did 
because  of  the — the  picture  of  you  stamped  on  my 
brain.  I  was  not  hearing  a  word  about  you,  but 
you  were  becoming  exactly  what  I  knew  you  would 
become ;  and  when  I  saw  you  out  there  in  the  barn- 
yard that  first  day  after  I  got  back,  my  whole  being 
caught  fire,  and  it's  blazing  yet — it  will  blaze  as 
long  as  there  is  a  breath  of  my  life  left  to  fan  it. 

252 


Ann    Boyd 

For  me  there  can  be  but  one  wife,  little  girl, 
and  if  she  fails  me  I'll  go  unmarried  to  my 
grave." 

"Oh,  don't!  don't!"  Virginia  sobbed,  her  tones 
muffled  by  her  hands  pressed  tightly  over  her  face. 
"You  don't  know  me.  I'm  not  what  you  think  I 
am.  I'm  only  a  poor,  helpless,  troubled — " 

1 '  Don't !  don't !"  he  broke  in,  fearfully—' '  don't  de- 
cide against  me  hastily!  I  know  —  God  knows  I 
am  unworthy  of  you,  and  if  you  don't  feel  as  I  do 
you  will  never  link  your  young  life  to  mine.  Some- 
times I  fear  that  your  shrinking  from  me  as  you 
often  do  is  evidence  against  my  hopes.  Oh,  dear, 
little  girl,  am  I  a  fool?  Am  I  a  crazy  idiot  asking 
you  for  what  you  can't  possibly  give?" 

A  sob  which  she  was  trying  to  suppress  shook  her 
from  head  to  foot,  and  she  rose  and  stepped  to  the 
door  and  stood  there  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  road, 
where  his  impatient  horse  was  pawing  the  earth 
and  neighing.  There  was  silence.  King  leaned  for- 
ward, his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  strong  fingers 
locked  like  prongs  of  steel  in  front  of  him,  his  face 
deep  cut  with  the  chisel  of  anxiety.  For  several 
minutes  he  stared  thus  at  her  white  profile  struck 
into  sharp  clearness  by  the  combined  light  from 
without  and  within. 

"I  see  it  all,"  he  groaned.  "I've  lost.  While  I 
was  away  out  there  treasuring  your  memory  and 
seeing  your  face  night  after  night,  day  after  day — 
holding  you  close,  pulling  these  rugged  old  moun- 
tains about  you  for  protection,  you  were  not — you 
were  not — I  was  simply  not  in  your  thoughts." 

Then  she  turned  towards  him.  She  seemed  to 

253 


Ann    Boyd 

have  grown  older  and  stronger  since  he  began  speak- 
ing so  earnestly. 

"You  must  not  think  of  me  that  way  any  longer," 
she  sighed.  "You  mustn't  neglect  your  work  to 
come  to  see  me,  either." 

"You  will  never  be  my  wife,  then,  Virginia?" 

"No,  I  could  never  be  that,  Luke — no,  not  that — • 
never  on  earth." 

He  shrank  together  as  if  in  sudden,  sharp  physical 
pain,  and  then  he  rose  to  his  full  height  and  reached 
for  his  hat,  which  she  had  placed  on  the  table.  His 
heavy-soled  boots  creaked  on  the  rough  floor;  he 
tipped  his  chair  over,  and  it  would  have  fallen  had 
he  not  awkwardly  caught  it  and  restored  it  to  its 
place. 

"You  have  a  good  reason,  I  am  sure  of  that," 
he  said,  huskily. 

"Yes,  yes,  I — I  have  a  reason."  Her  stiff  lips 
made  answer.  "We  are  not  for  each  other,  Luke. 
If  you've  been  thinking  so,  so  long,  as  you  say,  it 
is  because  you  were  trying  to  make  me  fit  your 
ideal,  but  I  am  not  that  in  reality.  I  tell  you  I'm 
only  a  poor,  suffering  girl,  full  of  faults  and 
weaknesses,  at  times  not  knowing  which  way  to 
turn." 

He  had  reached  the  door,  and  he  stepped  out  into 
the  moonlight,  his  massive  head  still  bare.  He 
shook  back  his  heavy  hair  in  a  determined  gesture 
of  supreme  faith  and  denial  and  said:  "  I  know  you 
better  than  you  know  yourself,  because  I  know  bet- 
ter than  you  do  how  to  compare  you  to  other  wom- 
en. I  want  you,  Virginia,  just  as  you  are,  with 
every  sweet  fault  about  you.  I  want  you  with  a 

254 


Ann    Boyd 

soul  that  actually  bleeds  for  you,  but  you  say  it 
must  not  be,  and  you  know  best." 

"No,  it  can't  possibly  be,"  Virginia  said,  almost 
fiercely.  "It  can  never  be  while  life  lasts.  You 
and  I  are  as  wide  apart  as  the  farthest  ends  of  the 
earth." 

He  bowed  his  head  and  stood  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  he  sighed  as  he  looked  at  her  again.  "I've 
thought  about  life  a  good  deal,  Virginia,"  he  said, 
"and  I've  almost  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a 
great  tragedy  must  tear  the  soul  of  every  person 
destined  for  spiritual  growth.  This  may  be  my 
tragedy,  Virginia;  I  know  something  of  the  tragedy 
that  lifted  Ann  Boyd  to  the  skies,  but  her  neigh- 
bors don't  see  it.  They  are  still  beating  the  ma- 
terial husk  from  which  her  big  soul  has  risen." 

"I  know  what  she  is,"  Virginia  declared.  "I'm 
happy  to  be  one  who  knows  her  as  she  is — the 
grandest  woman  in  the  world." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  King  said.  "I 
knew  if  anybody  did  her  justice  it  would  be  you." 

"If  I  don't  know  how  to  sympathize  with  her,  no 
one  does,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  bitterness  of  tone  he 
could  not  fathom.  "She's  wonderful;  she's  glori- 
'ous.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  suffer  anything 
to  reach  what  she  has  reached." 

"Well,  I  didn't  come  to  talk  of  her,  good  as  she 
has  been  to  me,"  King  said,  gloomily.  "I  must 
get  back  to  the  grind  and  whir  of  that  big  building. 
I  shall  not  come  up  again  for  some  time.  I  have  an 
idea  I  know  what  your  reason  is,  but  it  would  drive 
me  crazy  even  to  think  about  it." 

She  started  suddenly,  and  then  stared  steadily  at 
255 


Ann     Boyd 

him.  In  the  white  moonlight  she  looked  like  a 
drooping  figure  carved  out  of  stone,  even  to  every 
fold  of  her  simple  dress  and  wave  of  her  glorious 
hair. 

"You  think  you  know!"  she  whispered. 
"  Yes,  I  think  so,  and  the  pronunciation  of  a  single 
name  would  prove  it,  but  I  shall  not  let  it  pass  my 
lips  to-night.     It's  my  tragedy,  Virginia." 

"And  mine,"  she  said  to  herself,  but  to  him  it 
seemed  that  she  made  no  response  at  all,  and  after 
a  moment's  pause  he  turned  away. 
"Good-bye,"  he  said,  from  the  gate. 
"Good-bye,  Luke,"  she  said,  impulsively. 
But  at  the  sound  of  his  name  he  whirled  and  came 
back,  his  brow  dyed  with  red,  his  tender  eyes  flash- 
ing.    "I'll  tell  you  one  other  thing,  and  then  I'll 
go,"  he  said,  tremulously.     "Out  West,  one  night, 
after  a  big  ball  which  had  bored  the  life  out  of  me — 
in  fact,  I  had  only  gone  because  it  was  a  coming-out 
affair  of  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  friend  of  mine. 
In  the  smoking-room  of   the  big  hotel  which  had 
been  rented  for  the  occasion  I  had  a  long  talk  with 
a  middle-aged  bachelor,  a  man  of  the  world,  whom 
I  knew  well.     He  told  me  his  story.     In  his  young- 
er days  he  had  been  in  love  with  a  girl  back  East, 
and  his  love  was  returned,  but  he  wanted  to  see 
more  of  life  and  the  world,  and  was  not  ready  to 
settle  down,  and  so  he  left  her.     After  years  spent 
in  an  exciting  business  and  social  life,  and  never 
meeting  any  one  else  that  he  could  care  for,  a  sud- 
den longing  came  over  him  to  hear  from  his  old 
sweetheart.     He  had  no  sooner  thought  of  it  than 
his  old  desires  came  back  like  a  storm,  and  he  could 

256 


Ann    Boyd 

not  even  wait  to  hear  from  her.  He  packed  up 
hastily,  took  the  train,  and  went  back  home.  He 
got  to  the  village  only  two  days  after  she  had  mar- 
ried another  man.  The  poor  old  chap  almost  cried 
when  he  told  me  about  it.  Then,  in  my  sympathy 
for  him,  I  told  him  of  my  feeling  for  a  little  girl  back 
here,  and  he  earnestly  begged  me  not  to  wait  an- 
other day.  It  was  that  talk  with  him  that  helped 
me  to  make  up  my  mind  to  come  home.  But,  you 
see,  I  am  too  late,  as  he  was  too  late.  Poor  old 
Duncan!  He'd  dislike  to  hear  of  my  failure.  But 
I've  lost  out,  too.  Now,  I'll  go  sure.  Good-bye, 
Virginia.  I  hope  you  will  be  happy.  I'm  going  to 
pray  for  that." 

Leaning  against  the  door- jamb,  she  saw  him  pass 
through  the  gateway,  unhitch  his  restive  horse,  and 
swing  himself  heavily  into  the  saddle,  still  hold- 
ing his  hat  in  his  hand.  Then  he  galloped  away — 
away  in  the  still  moonlight,  the — to  her — peaceful, 
mocking  moonlight. 

"He  thinks  he  knows,"  she  muttered,  "but  he 
doesn't  dream  the  whole  truth.  If  he  did  he  would 
no  longer  think  that  way  of  me.  What  am  I,  any- 
way? He  was  loving  me  with  that  great,  infinite 
soul  while  I  was  listening  to  the  idle  simpering  of  a 
fool.  Ah,  Luke  King  shall  never  know  the  truth! 
I'd  rather  lie  dead  before  him  than  to  see  that  won- 
drous light  die  out  of  his  great,  trusting  eyes." 

She  heard  Sam  coming  down  the  road,  and  through 
the  silvery  gauze  of  night  she  saw  the  red  flare  of 
his  pipe.  She  turned  into  her  own  room  and  sat 
down  on  the  bed,  her  little,  high-instepped  feet  on 
the  floor,  her  hands  clasped  between  her  knees. 

257 


XXVII 

[E  events  which  took  place  at  Chesters' 
that  adventurous  night  had  a  remark- 
able effect  on  the  young  master  of  the 
place.  After  Ann  Boyd  had  left  him 
restlessly  paced  the  floor  of  the 
long  veranda.  Blind  fury  and  unsatisfied  passion 
held  him  in  their  clutch  and  drove  him  to  and  fro 
like  a  caged  and  angry  lion.  The  vials  of  his  first 
wrath  were  poured  on  the  heads  of  his  meddlesome 
guests,  who  had  so  unceremoniously  thrust  them- 
selves upon  him  at  such  an  inopportune  moment, 
and  from  them  his  more  poignant  resentment  was 
finally  shifted  to  the  woman  whom  for  years  he, 
with  the  rest  of  the  community,  had  contemptu- 
ously regarded  as  the  partner  in  his  father's  early 
indiscretions.  That  she — such  a  character — should 
suddenly  rise  to  remind  him  of  his  duty  to  his  man- 
hood, and  even  enforce  it  under  his  own  roof,  was 
the  most  humiliating  happening  of  his  whole  life. 

These  hot  reflections  and  secret  plans  for  re- 
venge finally  died  away  and  were  followed  by  a 
state  of  mind  that,  at  its  lowest  ebb,  amounted  to 
a  racking  despair  he  had  never  known.  Something 
told  him  that  Ann  Boyd  had  spoken  grim  truth 
when  she  had  said  that  Virginia  would  never  again 
fall  under  his  influence,  and  certainly  no  woman 

258 


Ann   Boyd 

had  ever  before  so  completely  absorbed  him.  Up 
to  this  moment  it  had  been  chiefly  her  rare  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  nature  that  had  charmed  him,  but 
now  he  began  to  realize  the  grandeur  of  her  char- 
acter and  the  depths  to  which  her  troubles  had 
stirred  his  sympathies.  As  he  recalled,  word  by 
word,  all  that  had  passed  between  them  in  regard 
to  her  nocturnal  visit,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
that  it  was  only  through  her  absorbing  desire  to 
save  her  mother  that  she,  abetted  by  her  very 
purity  of  mind,  had  been  blindly  led  into  danger. 
He  flushed  and  shuddered  under  the  lash  of  the 
thought  that  he,  himself,  had  constituted  that 
danger. 

He  went  to  bed,  but  scarcely  closed  his  eyes  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  night,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing was  up  before  the  cook  had  made  the  fires  in  the 
kitchen  range.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  would  do, 
but  he  determined  to  see  Virginia  at  the  earliest 
opportunity  and  make  an  honest  and  respectful 
attempt  to  regain  her  confidence.  He  would  give 
her  the  money  she  so  badly  needed — give  it  to  her 
without  restrictions,  and  trust  to  her  gratitude  to 
restore  her  faith  in  him.  He  spent  all  that  morn- 
ing, after  eating  a  hasty  breakfast,  on  a  near-by 
wooded  hill-side,  from  which  elevation  he  had  a  fair 
view  of  Jane  Hemingway's  cottage.  He  saw  Vir- 
ginia come  from  the  house  in  search  of  the  cow, 
and  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth  he  was  preparing 
to  descend  to  meet  her,  when,  to  his  consternation, 
he  saw  that  she  had  joined  Ann  Boyd  at  the  barn- 
yard of  the  latter,  and  then  he  saw  the  two  go  into 
Ann's  house  together.  This  augured  ill  for  him, 

259 


Ann    Boyd 

his  fears  whispered,  and  he  remained  at  his  post 
among  the  trees  till  the  girl  came  out  of  the  house 
and  hastened  homeward.  For  the  next  two  days 
he  hung  about  Jane  Hemingway's  cottage  with 
no  other  thought  in  mind  than  seeing  Virginia. 
Once  from  the  hill-side  he  saw  her  as  she  was  re- 
turning from  Wilson's  store,  and  he  made  all  haste 
to  descend,  hoping  to  intercept  her  before  she 
reached  home,  but  he  was  just  a  moment  too  late. 
She  was  on  the  road  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  him, 
and,  seeing  him,  she  quickened  her  step.  He  walked 
faster,  calling  out  to  her  appealingly  to  stop,  but 
she  did  not  pause  or  look  back  again.  Then  he  saw 
a  wagon  filled  with  men  and  women  approaching 
on  the  way  to  market,  and,  knowing  that  such  un- 
seemly haste  on  his  part  and  hers  would  excite 
comment,  he  paused  at  the  road-side  and  allowed  her 
to  pursue  her  way  unmolested.  The  next  day  being 
Sunday,  he  dressed  himself  with  unusual  care,  keen- 
ly conscious,  as  he  looked  in  the  mirror,  that  his 
visage  presented  a  haggard,  careworn  aspect  that 
was  anything  but  becoming.  His  eyes  had  the 
fixed,  almost  bloodshot  stare  of  an  habitual  drunk- 
ard in  the  last  nervous  stages  of  downward  prog- 
ress. His  usually  pliant  hair,  as  if  surcharged  with 
electricity,  seemed  to  defy  comb  and  brush,  and 
stood  awry;  his  clothes  hung  awkwardly;  his  quiv- 
ering fingers  refused  to  put  the  deft  touch  to  his 
tie  which  had  been  his  pride.  At  the  last  moment 
he  discovered  that  his  boots  had  not  been  blacked 
by  the  negro  boy  who  waited  on  him  every  morn- 
ing. He  did  this  himself  very  badly,  and  then 
started  out  to  church,  not  riding,  for  the  reason  that 

260 


Ann    Boyd 

he  hoped  Virginia  would  be  there,  and  that  he 
might  have  the  excuse  of  being  afoot  to  join  her 
and  walk  homeward  with  her.  But  she  was  not 
there,  and  he  sat  through  Bazemore's  long-winded 
discourse,  hardly  conscious  that  the  minister,  flat- 
tered by  his  unwonted  presence,  glanced  at  him 
proudly  all  through  the  service. 

So  it  was  that  one  thing  and  another ''happened 
to  prevent  his  seeing  Virginia  till  one  morning  at 
Wilson's  store  he  heard  that  Jane  Hemingway  had, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  gotten  the  money  she 
needed  and  had  already  gone  to  Atlanta.  He  suf- 
fered a  slight  shock  over  the  knowledge  that  Vir- 
ginia would  now  not  need  the  funds  he  had  been 
keeping  for  her,  but  this  was  conquered  by  the 
thought  that  he  could  go  straight  to  the  cottage, 
now  that  the  girl's  grim-faced  guardian  was  away. 
So  he  proceeded  at  once  to  do  this.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  gate,  a  thrill  of  gratification  passed 
over  him,  for  he  observed  that  Sam  Hemingway 
was  out  at  the  barn,  some  distance  from  the  house. 
As  he  was  entering  the  gate  and  softly  closing  it 
after  him,  Virginia  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Their 
eyes  met.  He  saw  her  turn  pale  and  stand  alert 
and  undecided,  her  head  up  like  that  of  a  young 
deer  startled  in  a  quiet  forest.  It  flashed  upon  him, 
to  his  satisfaction,  that  she  would  instinctively  re- 
treat into  the  house,  and  that  he  could  follow  and 
there,  unmolested  even  by  a  chance  passer-by,  say 
all  he  wanted  to  say,  and  say  it,  too,  in  the  old 
fashion  which  had  once  so  potently — if  only  tem- 
porarily— influenced  her.  But  with  a  flash  of  wis- 
dom and  precaution,  for  which  he  had  not  given 

261 


Ann   Boyd 

her  credit,  she  seemed  to  realize  the  barriers  beyond 
her  and  quickly  stepped  out  into  the  porch,  where 
coldly  and  even  sternly  she  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

"Virginia,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat  and  humbly 
sweeping  it  towards  the  ground,  "I  have  been  mov- 
ing heaven  and  earth  to  get  to  see  you  alone."  He 
glanced  furtively  down  the  road,  and  then  added: 
"Let's  go  into  the  house.  I've  got  something  im- 
portant to  say  to  you." 

Still  staring  straight  at  him,  she  moved  forward 
till  she  leaned  against  the  railing  of  the  porch.  "I 
sha'n't  do  it,"  she  said,  firmly.  "If  I've  been  silly 
once,  that  is  no  reason  I'll  be  so  always.  There  is 
nothing  you  can  say  to  me  that  can't  be  spoken 
here  in  the  open  sunlight." 

Her  words  and  tone  struck  him  like  a  material 
missile  well-aimed  and  deliberately  hurled.  There 
was  a  dignity  and  firm  finality  in  her  bearing  which 
he  felt  could  not  be  met  with  his  old  shallow  suavity 
and  seductive  flattery.  From  credulous  childhood 
she  seemed,  in  that  brief  period,  to  have  grown  into 
wise  maturity.  If  she  had  been  beautiful  in  his 
eyes  before,  she  was  now,  in  her  frigid  remoteness, 
in  her  thorough  detachment  from  their  former  in- 
timacy, far  more  than  that. 

"Well,  I  meant  no  harm,"  he  found  himself  ar- 
ticulating, almost  in  utter  bewilderment.  "I  only 
thought  that  somebody  passing  might — " 

"Might  see  me  with  you?"  she  flashed  out,  with 
sudden  anger.  "  What  do  I  care  ?  I  came  out  here 
just  now  and  gave  a  tramp  something  to  eat.  If 
they  see  you  here,  I  suppose  it  won't  be  the  first 

262 


Ann    Boyd 

time  a  girl  has  been  seen  talking  to  a  man  in  front 
of  her  own  home." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  stammered,  at 
the  end  of  his  resources;  "but  I've  been  utterly 
miserable,  Virginia." 

"Oh!  is  that  so?"  she  sneered. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  feel  awfully  bad  about  what  took 
place.  I  wanted  to  give  you  that  money  for  your 
mother,  and  that  night  when  I  finally  got  rid  of 
those  meddlesome  devils  and — " 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  stop!"  Virginia  cried. 
"I  simply  will  not  stand  here  and  talk  about  that." 

"But  I  have  the  money  still,"  he  said,  feebly. 
"You  kept  your  word  in  coming  for  it,  and  I  want 
to  keep  mine." 

"I  wouldn't  touch  a  cent  of  it  to  save  my  life," 
she  hurled  at  him.  "If  my  mother  lay  before  my 
eyes  dying  in  agony  and  your  money  would  save 
her,  I  wouldn't  have  it.  I  wouldn't  take  it  to  save 
my  soul  from  perdition." 

"You  are  making  it  very  hard  for  me,"  he  said, 
desperately;  and  then,  with  a  frankness  she  could 
not  have  looked  for  even  from  his  coarsest  side, 
he  went  on  passionately:  "I'm  only  a  man,  Virginia 
—  a  human  being,  full  of  love,  admiration,  and  — 
passion.  Young  as  you  are,  I  can't  blame  you,  and, 
still  you  did  encourage  me.  You  know  you  did. 
I'm  nearly  insane  over  it  all.  I  want  you,  Virginia. 
These  meetings  with  you,  and  the  things  you  have  let 
me  say  to  you,  if  you  have  said  nothing  yourself, 
have  lifted  me  to  the  very  sky.  I  simply  cannot  bear 
up  under  your  present  actions,  knowing  that  that  old 
woman  has  been  talking  against  me.  I  am  willing 

263 


Ann    Boyd 

to  do  anything  on  earth  to  set  myself  right.  I  ad- 
mire you  more  than  I  ever  dreamed  I  could  admire 
a  woman,  and  my  love  for  you  is  like  a  torrent  that 
nothing  can  dam.  I  must  have  you,  Virginia.  The 
whole  thing  has  gone  too  far.  You  ought  to  have 
thought  of  this  before  you  agreed  to  come  to  my 
house  alone  at  night,  when  you  knew  I  was — when 
you  knew  I  had  every  reason  to  expect  that  you — 

"Stop!"  she  cried,  with  white  lips  and  eyes  flash- 
ing. "You  are  a  coward,  as  well  as  a  scoundrel! 
You  are  daring  to  threaten  me.  You  have  made 
me  hate  myself.  As  for  you,  I  despise  you  as  I 
would  a  loathsome  reptile.  I  hate  you!  I  detest 
you!  I  wake  up  in  the  night  screaming  in  terror, 
fancying  that  I'm  again  in  that  awful  room,  locked 
in  like  a  slave,  a  prisoner  subject  to  your  will — wait- 
ing for  you  to  bid  good  -  night  to  your  drunken 
friends — locked  in  by  your  hand  to  wait  there  in 
an  agony  of  death.  Love  you?  I  hate  you!  I 
hate  the  very  low-browed  emptiness  of  your  face. 
I  hate  my  mother  for  the  selfish  fear  of  death  which 
blinded  me  to  my  own  rights  as  a  woman.  Oh, 
God,  I  want  to  die  and  be  done  with  it!" 

She  suddenly  covered  her  impassioned  face  with 
her  hands  and  shook  convulsively  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Oh,  Virginia,  don't,  don't  make  a  mountain  out 
of  a  molehill,"  he  began,  with  a  leaning  towards  his 
old,  seductive  persuasiveness.  "There  is  nothing  to 
feel  so  badly  about.  You  know  that  Ann  Boyd 
got  there  before  I — I— 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  she  said,  uncov- 
ering eyes  that  flashed  like  lightning.  "When  I 

264 


Ann    Boyd 

went  there,  with,  no  interest  in  you  further  than  a 
silly  love  of  your  honeyed  words  and  to  get  your 
money,  I  did  what  I'll  never  wipe  from  my  memory." 

"Virginia" — he  tried  to  assume  a  light  laugh — 
"this  whole  thing  has  turned  your  head.  You  will 
feel  differently  about  it  later  when  your  mother 
comes  back  sound  and  well.  Ann  Boyd  is  not 
going  to  tell  what  took  place,  and — 

"  And  you  and  I  will  have  a  secret  of  that  nature 
between  us!"  she  broke  in,  furiously.  "That's  got 
to  blacken  my  memory,  and  be  always  before  me! 
You  are  going  to  know  that  of  me  when — when,  yes, 
I'll  say  it — when  another  man  whose  shoes  you  are 
unworthy  to  wipe  believes  me  to  be  as  free  from 
contact  with  evil  as  a  new-born  baby." 

Chester  drew  his  brows  together  in  sudden  sus- 
picion. 

"You  are  referring  to  Luke  King!"  he  snapped 
out.  "Look  here,  Virginia,  don't  make  this  matter 
any  more  serious  than  it  is.  I  will  not  have  a  man 
like  that  held  up  to  me  as  a  paragon.  I  have  heard 
that  he  used  to  hang  around  you  when  you  were 
little,  before  he  went  off  and  came  back  so  puffed 
up  with  his  accomplishments,  and  I  understand  he 
has  been  to  see  you  recently,  but  I  won't  stand  his 
meddling  in  my  affairs." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,"  Virginia  said,  with  a  bit- 
terness he  could  not  fathom.  "There  is  nothing 
between  Luke  King  and  myself — absolutely  noth- 
ing. You  may  rest  sure  that  I'd  never  receive  the 
attentions  of  a  man  of  his  stamp  after  what  has 
passed  between  me  and  a  man  of  your — "  She 
paused. 

is  265 


Ann   Boyd 

He  was  now  white  with  rage.  His  lower  lip  hung 
and  twitched  nervously. 

"You  are  a  little  devil!"  he  cried.  "You  know 
you  are  driving  me  crazy.  But  I  will  not  be  thrown 
over.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  am  not  going  to  give 
you  up." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  will  help  yourself,"  she 
said,  moving  back  towards  the  door.  "I  certainly 
shall  never,  of  my  own  free  will,  see  you  alone  again. 
What  I've  done,  I've  done,  but  I  don't  intend  to 
have  it  thrown  into  my  face  day  after  day." 

"Look  here,  Virginia,"  he  began,  but  she  had 
walked  erectly  into  the  house  and  abruptly  closed 
the  door.  He  stood  undecided  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  crestfallen,  he  turned  away. 


XXVIII 

|NE  bright,  crisp  morning  a  few  days 
later,  after  her  uncle  had  ridden  his 
old  horse,  in  clanking,  trace-chain  har- 
ness, off  to  his  field  to  do  some  plough- 
ing, Virginia  stole  out  unnoticed  and 
went  over  to  Ann  Boyd's.  The  door  of  the  farm- 
house stood  open,  and  in  the  sitting-room  the 
girl  saw  Ann  seated  near  a  window  hemming  a 
sheet. 

"I  see  from  your  face  that  you've  had  more 
news,"  the  old  woman  said,  as  she  smiled  in  greet- 
ing. "Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it.  I'm  on 
this  job  and  want  to  get  through  with  it  before  I 
put  it  down." 

"I  got  a  letter  this  morning,"  Virginia  complied, 
"from  a  woman  down  there  who  said  she  was  my 
mother's  nurse.  The  operation  was  very  successful, 
and  she  is  doing  remarkably  well.  The  surgeon 
says  she  will  have  no  more  trouble  with  her  afflic- 
tion. It  was  only  on  the  surface  and  was  taken 
just  in  time." 

"Ah,  just  in  time!"  Ann  held  the  sheet  in  her 
tense  hands  for  a  moment,  and  then  crushed  it  into 
her  capacious  lap.  "Then  she's  all  right." 

"Yes,  she  is  all  right,  Mrs.  Boyd.  In  fact,  the 
doctor  says  she  will  soon  be  able  to  come  home. 

267 


Ann    Boyd 

The  simple  treatment  can  be  continued  here  under 
their  directions  till  she  is  thoroughly  restored." 

There  was  silence.  Ann's  face  looked  as  hard  as 
stone.  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to  conquer  some 
rising  emotion,  for  she  coughed,  cleared  her  throat, 
and  swallowed.  Her  heavy  brows  were  drawn  to- 
gether, and  the  muscles  of  her  big  neck  stood  up 
under  her  tanned  skin  like  tent-cords  drawn  taut 
from  pole  to  stake. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  one  particular  thing  and 
be  done  with  it,"  she  suddenly  gulped.  "I  don't 
believe  in  deception  of  any  sort  whatever.  I  hate 
your  mother  as  much  as  I  could  hate  anything  or 
anybody.  I  want  it  understood  between  us  now 
on  the  spot  that  I  done  what  I  did  for  you,  not  for 
her.  It  may  be  Old  Nick  in  me  that  makes  me  feel 
this  way  at  such  a  time,  but,  you  see,  I  understand 
her  well  enough  to  know  she  will  come  back  primed 
and  cocked  for  the  old  battle.  The  fear  of  death 
didn't  alter  her  in  her  feelings  towards  me,  and,  now 
that  she's  on  her  feet,  she  will  be  worse  than  ever. 
It's  purty  tough  to  have  to  think  that  I  put  her  in 
such  good  fighting  trim,  but  I  did  it." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  right  about  her  future  atti- 
tude," Virginia  sighed,  "and  that  was  one  reason 
I  did  not  want  help  to  come  through  you." 

"That  makes  no  odds  now,"  Ann  said,  stoically. 
"What's  done  is  done.  I'm  in  the  hands  of  two 
powers — good  and  evil — and  here  lately  I  never 
know,  when  I  get  out  of  bed  in  the  morning, 
whether  I'm  going  to  feel  the  cool  breath  of  one  or 
the  hot  blast  of  the  other.  For  months  I  had  but 
one  desire,  and  that  was  to  see  you,  you  poor,  inno- 

268 


Ann   Boyd 

cent  child,  breathing  the  fumes  of  the  hell  I  sunk 
into;  and  just  as  my  hopes  were  about  to  be  realized 
the  other  power  caught  me  up  like  a  swollen  river 
and  swept  me  right  the  other  way.  Luke  King 
really  caused  it.  Child,  since  God  made  the  world 
He  never  put  among  human  beings  a  man  with 
a  finer  soul.  That  poor,  barefoot  mountain  boy 
that  I  picked  up  and  sent  off  to  school  has  come 
back — like  Joseph  that  was  dropped  in  a  pit — a 
king  among  men.  Under  the  lash  of  his  inspired 
tongue  I  had  to  rise  from  my  mire  of  hatred  and 
do  my  duty.  I  might  not  have  l^een  strong  enough 
in  the  right  way  if — if  I  hadn't  loved  him  so  much, 
and  if  he  hadn't  told  me,  poor  boy,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  and  voice,  that  you  were  the  only  woman 
in  the  world  for  him,  and  that  his  career  would  be 
wrecked  if  he  lost  you.  I  let  him  leave  me  with- 
out making  promises.  I  was  mad  and  miserable 
because  I  was  about  to  be  thwarted.  But  when  he 
was  gone  I  got  to  thinking  it  over,  and  finally  I 
couldn't  help  myself,  and  acted.  I  determined,  if 
possible,  to  pull  you  back  from  the  brink  you  stood 
on  and  give  you  to  him,  that  you  might  live  the  life 
that  I  missed." 

Virginia  sank  into  a  chair.  She  was  flushed  from 
her  white,  rounded  neck  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  deserve  it!"  she  cried.  "I  have 
remained  silent  when  my  mother  was  heaping  abuse 
upon  you.  I  made  no  effort  to  do  you  justice 
when  your  enemies  were  crying  you  down.  Oh, 
Mrs.  Boyd,  you  are  the  best  and  most  unselfish 
woman  that  ever  lived." 

"  No,  I  am  not  that,"  Ann  declared,  firmly.  "  I'm 
269 


Ann   Boyd 

just  like  the  general  run  of  women,  weak  and  wishy- 
washy,  with  dry  powder  in  my  make-up  that  any- 
body can  touch  a  match  to.  There  is  no  counting 
on  what  I'll  do  next.  Right  now  I  feel  like  being 
your  stanch  friend,  but  I  really  don't  know  but 
what,  if  your  mammy  hemmed  me  in  a  corner,  I'd 
even  throw  up  to  her  what  you  did  that  night.  I  say 
I  don't  know  what  notion  might  strike  me.  She 
can,  with  one  word  or  look  of  hers,  start  perdition's 
fire  in  me.  I  don't  know  any  more  than  a  cat  what 
made  me  go  contrary  to  my  plans  that  night.  It 
wasn't  in  a  thousand  miles  of  what  I  wanted  to 
do,  and  having  Jane  Hemingway  come  back  here 
with  a  sound  body  and  tongue  of  fire  isn't  what  I 
saved  money  to  pay  for.  If  forgiveness  is  to  be 
the  white  garment  of  the  next  life,  mine  will  be  as 
black  as  logwood  dye." 

"  The  pretty  part  of  it  all  is  that  you  don't  know 
yourself  as  you  really  are,"  Virginia  said,  almost 
smiling  in  her  enthusiasm.  "Since  I've  seen  the 
beautiful  side  of  your  character  I've  come  almost 
to  understand  the  eternal  wisdom  even  in  human 
ills.  But  for  your  hatred  of  my  mother,  your  kind- 
ness to  me  would  not  be  so  wonderful.  For  a  long 
time  I  had  only  my  mother  to  love,  but  now,  Mrs. 
Boyd,  somehow,  I  have  not  had  as  great  anxiety 
about  her  down  there  as  I  thought  I  would  have. 
Really,  my  heart  has  been  divided  between  you  two. 
Mrs.  Boyd,  I  love  you.  I  can't  help  it — I  love  you." 

Ann  suddenly  raised  her  sheet  and  folded  it  in  her 
lap.  Her  face  had  softened ;  there  was  a  wonderful 
spiritual  radiance  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  powerful  good  and  sweet  of  you  to — to  talk 
270 


Ann   Boyd 

that  way  to  a  poor,  despised  outcast  like  I  am.  I 
can't  remember  many  good  things  being  said  about 
me,  and  when  you  say  you  feel  that  way  towards 
me,  why  —  well,  it's  sweet  of  you  —  that's  all,  it's 
sweet  and  kind  of  you." 

"You  have  made  me  love  you,"  Virginia  said, 
simply.  "I  could  not  help  myself." 

Ann  looked  straight  at  the  girl  from  her  moist, 
beaming  eyes. 

"I'm  a  very  odd  woman,  child,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  what  I  regard  as  the  oddest  thing  about 
me.  You  say  you  feel  kind  towards  me,  and,  and — 
love  me  a  little.  Well,  ever  since  that  night  in  that 
young  scamp's  room,  when  I  came  on  you,  crouched 
down  there  in  your  misery  and  fear,  looking  so 
much  like  I  must  'a'  looked  at  one  time  away  back 
when  not  a  spark  of  hope  flashed  in  my  black  sky — 
ever  since  I  saw  you  that  way,  helpless  as  a  fresh 
violet  in  the  track  of  a  grazing  bull,  I  have  felt  a 
yearning  to  draw  you  up  against  this  old  storm- 
beaten  breast  of  mine  and  rock  you  to  sleep.  That's 
odd,  but  that  isn't  the  odd  thing  I  was  driving  at, 
and  it  is  this,  Virginia — I  don't  care  a  snap  of  my 
finger  about  my  own  child.  Think  of  that.  If  I 
was  to  hear  of  her  death  to-night  it  wouldn't  be 
any  more  to  me  than  the  news  of  the  death  of  any 
stranger." 

"That  is  queer,"  said  Virginia,  thoughtfully. 

"Well,  it's  only  nature  working,  I 'reckon,"  Ann 
said.  "  I  loved  her  as  a  baby — in  a  natural  way,  I 
suppose — but  when  she  went  off  from  me,  and  by 
her  going  helped — child  though  she  was — to  stamp 
the  brand  on  me  that  has  been  like  the  mark  of  a 

271 


Ann    Boyd 

convict  on  my  brow  ever  since — when  she  went  off, 
I  say,  I  hardened  my  heart  towards  her,  and  day 
after  day  I  kept  it  hard  till  now  she  couldn't  soften 
it.  Maybe  if  I  was  to  see  her  in  trouble  like  you 
were  in,  my  heart  would  go  out  to  her;  but  she's 
independent  of  me;  the  only  thing  I've  ever  heard 
of  her  is  that  she  cries  and  shudders  at  the  men- 
tion of  my  name.  She  shudders  at  it,  and  she'll 
go  down  to  her  grave  shuddering  at  it.  She'll  teach 
her  children  not  to  mention  me.  No,  I'll  never  love 
her,  and  that's  why  it  seems  odd  for  me  to  feel  like 
I  do  about  you.  Heaven  knows,  it  seems  like  a 
dream  when  I  remember  that  you  are  Jane  Heming- 
way's child  and  the  chief  pride  of  her  hard  life. 
As  for  my  own  girl,  she's  full  grown  now,  and  has 
her  natural  plans  and  aspirations,  and  is  afraid  my 
record  will  blight  them.  I  don't  even  know  how 
she  looks,  but  I  have  in  mind  a  tall,  stiff-necked, 
bony  girl  inclined  to  awkwardness,  selfish,  grasping, 
and  unusually  proud.  But  I  can  love  as  well  as 
hate,  though  I've  done  more  hating  in  my  life  than 
loving.  There  was  a  time  I  thought  the  very  seeds 
of  love  had  dried  up  in  me,  but  about  that  time  I 
picked  up  Luke  King.  Even  as  a  boy  he  seemed 
to  look  deep  into  the  problems  of  life,  and  was  sorry 
for  me.  Somehow  me  and  him  got  to  talking  over 
my  trouble  as  if  he'd  been  a  woman,  and  he  always 
stood  to  me  and  pitied  me  and  called  me  tender 
names.  You  see,  nobody  at  his  home  understood 
him,  and  he  had  his  troubles,  too,  so  we  naturally 
drifted  together  like  a  mother  and  son  pulled  tow- 
ards one  another  by  the  oddest  freak  of  circum- 
stances that  ever  came  in  two  lives.  We  used  to 

272 


Ann   Boyd 

sit  here  in  this  room  and  talk  of  the  deepest  ques- 
tions that  ever  puzzled  the  human  brain.  Our 
reason  told  us  the  infinite  plan  of  the  universe  must 
be  good,  but  we  couldn't  make  it  tally  with  the 
heavy  end  of  it  we  had  to  tote.  He  was  rebellious 
against  circumstances  and  his  lazy  old  step-father's 
conduct  towards  him,  and  he  finally  kicked  over 
the  traces  and  went  West.  Well,  he  had  his  eyes 
open  out  there,  and  came  back  with  the  blaze  of 
spiritual  glory  in  his  manly  face.  He  started  in  to 
practise  what  he  was  preaching,  too.  He  yanked 
out  of  his  pocket  the  last  dollar  of  his  savings  and 
forked  it  over  to  the  last  people  on  earth  to  deserve 
it.  That  made  me  so  mad  I  couldn't  speak  to  him 
for  a  while,  but  now  I'm  forced  to  admit  that 
the  sacrifice  hasn't  harmed  him  in  the  least.  He's 
plunging  ahead  down  there  in  the  most  wonderful 
way,  and  content — well,  content  but  just  for  one 
thing.  I  reckon  you  know  what  that  is?" 

Ann  paused.  Virginia  was  looking  out  through 
the  open  doorway,  a  flush  creeping  over  her  sensi- 
tive face.  She  started  to  speak,  but  the  words 
hung  in  her  throat,  and  she  only  coughed. 

"Yes,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  Ann  went  on, 
gently.  "He  come  over  here  the  other  night  after 
he  left  your  house.  He  hitched  his  horse  at  the 
gate  and  come  in  and  sat  down.  I  saw  something 
serious  had  happened,  and  as  he  was  not  due  here, 
and  was  overwhelmed  with  business  in  Atlanta,  I 
thought  he  had  met  with  money  trouble.  I  made 
up  my  mind  then  and  there,  too,  that  I'd  back  him 
to  the  extent  of  every  thimbleful  of  land  and  every 
splinter  of  timber  in  my  possession;  but  it  wasn't 

273 


Ann    Boyd 

money  he  wanted.  It  was  something  else.  He  sat 
there  in  the  moonlight  that  was  shining  through 
the  door,  with  his  head  on  his  breast  plumb  full  of 
despair.  I  finally  got  it  out  of  him.  You'd  re- 
fused him  outright.  You'd  decided  that  you  could 
get  on  without  the  love  and  life-devotion  of  the 
grandest  man  that  ever  lived.  I  was  thoroughly  mad 
at  you  then.  I  come  in  an  inch  of  turning  plumb 
against  you,  but  I  didn't.  I  fought  for  you  as  I'd 
have  fought  for  myself  away  back  in  my  girlhood. 
I  did  it,  although  I  could  have  spanked  you  good 
for  making  him  so  miserable." 

"You  know  why  I  refused  him,"  Virginia  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  You,  of  all  persons,  will  know  that." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  do,"  Ann  said,  with  a  probing 
expression  in  her  eyes.  "I  don't  know,  unless, 
after  all,  you  have  a  leaning  for  that  young  scamp, 
who  has  no  more  real  honor  than  a  convict  in  his 
stripes.  Women  are  that  way,  except  in  very  rare 
cases.  The  bigger  the  scoundrel  and  the  meaner 
he  treats  them  the  more  they  want  him.  If  it's 
that,  I  am  not  going  to  upbraid  you.  Upbraiding 
folks  for  obeying  the  laws  of  nature  is  the  greatest 
loss  of  wind  possible.  If  you  really  love  that  scamp, 
no  power  under  high  heaven  will  turn  you." 

"Love  him?  I  loathe  him!"  burst  passionately 
from  Virginia's  lips. 

"Then  what  under  the  sun  made  you  treat  Luke 
King  as  you  did  ?"  asked  Ann,  almost  sternly. 

"Because  I  could  not  marry  him,"  said  the  girl, 
firmly.  "I'd  rather  die  than  accept  the  love  and 
devotion  of  a  man  as  noble  as  he  is  after — after — oh, 
you  know  what  I  mean!" 

274 


Ann   Boyd 

"Oh,  I  see — I  see,"  Ann  said,  her  brows  meeting. 
"There  comes  another  law  of  nature.  I  reckon  if 
you  feel  that  way,  any  argument  I'd  put  up  would 
fall  on  deaf  ears." 

"I  could  never  accept  his  love  and  confidence 
without  telling  him  all  that  took  place  that  night, 
and  I'd  kill  myself  rather  than  have  him  know," 
declared  the  girl. 

"Oh,  that's  the  trouble!"  Ann  exclaimed.  "Well, 
I  hope  all  that  will  wear  away  in  time.  It's  fortu- 
nate that  you  are  not  loved  by  a  narrow  fool,  my 
child.  Luke  King  has  seen  a  lots  of  the  world  in 
his  young  life." 

"He  has  not  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  make 
him  overlook  a  thing  of  that  kind,  and  you  know 
it,"  Virginia  sighed.  "I  really  believe  the  higher  a 
man  becomes  spiritually  the  higher  his  ideal  of  a 
woman  is.  I  know  what  he  thinks  of  me  now,  but 
I  don't  know  what  he  would  think  if  he  knew  the 
whole  truth.  He  must  never  be  told  that,  Mrs. 
Boyd.  God  knows  I  am  grateful  to  you  for 
all  you  have  done,  but  you  must  not  tell  him 
that." 

Ann  put  down  her  sheet  and  went  to  the  fire- 
place, and  with  the  tip  of  her  coarse,  gaping  shoe 
she  pushed  some  burning  embers  under  a  three- 
legged  pot  on  the  stone  hearth.  With  her  tongs  she 
lifted  the  iron  lid  and  looked  at  a  corn-pone  brown- 
ing within,  and  then  she  replaced  it.  Her  brow  was 
deeply  wrinkled. 

"You  told  me  everything  that  happened  that 
night,  if  I  remember  right,"  she  said,  tentatively. 
"In  fact,  I  know  you  did." 

275 


Ann 

Virginia  said  nothing;  her  thoughts  seemed  else- 
where. 

Leaning  the  tongs  against  the  fireplace,  Ann  came 
forward  and  bent  over  her  almost  excitedly. 

"Look  here,  child,"  she  said,  "you  told  me  that — 
that  I  got  there  in  time.  You  told  me — " 

"I  told  you  all  I  thought  was  necessary  for  you 
to  understand  the  situation,"  said  Virginia,  her  eyes 
downcast,  "but  I  didn't  tell  you  all  I'd  have  to  tell 
Luke  King — to  be  his  wife." 

"You  say  you  didn't."  Ann  sat  down  heavily  in 
her  chair.  "Then  be  plain  with  me;  what  under 
the  sun  did  you  leave  out?" 

"I  left  out  the  fact  that  I  was  crazy  that  night," 
said  Virginia.  "  I  read  in  a  book  once  that  a  woman 
is  so  constituted  that  she  can't  see  reason  in  any- 
thing which  does  not  coincide  with  her  desires.  I 
saw  only  one  thing  that  night  that  was  worth  con- 
sidering. I  saw  only  the  awful  suffering  of  my 
mother  and  the  chance  to  put  an  end  to  it  by  get- 
ting hold  of  that  man's  money.  Do  you  under- 
stand now?  I  went  there  for  that  purpose.  I'd 
have  laid  down  my  life  for  it.  When  those  men 
came  he  urged  me  to  run  and  hide  in  his  room,  as 
he  and  I  stood  on  the  veranda,  and  it  was  not  fear 
of  exposure  that  drove  me  up  the  stairs  holding 
to  his  hand.  It  was  the  almost  appalling  fear  that 
the  promised  money  would  slip  through  my  ringers 
if  I  didn't  obey  him  to  the  letter.  And  when  he 
whispered,  with  his  hot  breath  in  my  ear,  there  in 
his  room,  as  his  friends  were  loudly  knocking  at 
the  door  below,  that  he  would  rid  himself  of  them 
and  come  back,  and  asked  me  if  I'd  wait,  I  said 

276 


Ann   Boyd 

yes,  as  I  would  have  said  it  to  God  in  heaven. 
Then  he  asked  me  if  it  was  'a  promise,'  and  I  said 
yes  again.  Then  he  asked  me,  Mrs.  Boyd,  he  asked 
me—" 

Virginia's  voice  died  out.  She  fell  to  quivering 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Well,  well,  go  on!"  Ann  said,  under  her  breath. 
"  Go  on.  What  did  he  ask  you  ?" 

Virginia  hesitated  for  another  minute,  then,  with 
her  face  red  with  shame,  she  said:  "He  asked  me  to 
prove  it  by — kissing  him — kissing  him  of  my  own 
free  will.  I  hesitated,  I  think.  Yes,  I  hesitated, 
but  I  heard  the  steps  of  the  men  in  the  hall  below 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  I  thought  of  the  money, 
Mrs.  Boyd,  and  I  kissed  him." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes.     I  did — there,  in  his  room!1' 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  told  me  that,"  Ann  breathed, 
deeply.  "I  think  I  understand  it  better  now.  I 
understand  how  you  feel." 

"So you  see,  all  that's  what  I'd  have  to  tell  Luke 
King,"  Virginia  said;  "and  I'll  never  do  it — never 
on  this  earth.  I  want  him  always  to  think  of  me 
as  he  does  right  now." 

Ann  locked  her  big  hands  in  her  lap  and  bent 
forward. 

"I  see  my  greatest  trouble  is  going  to  lie  with 
you,"  she  said.  "You  are  conscientious.  Millions 
of  women  have  kept  worse  things  than  that  from 
their  husbands  and  never  lost  a  wink  of  sleep  over 
them,  but  you  seem  to  be  of  a  different  stripe.  I 
think  Luke  King  is  too  grand  a  man  to  hold  that 
against  you,  under  all  the  circumstances.  I  think 

277 


Ann   Boyd 

so,  but  I  don't  know  men  any  better  than  they  know 
women,  and  I'm  not  going  to  urge  you  one  way  or 
the  other.  I  thought  my  easy-going  husband  would 
do  me  justice,  but  he  couldn't  have  done  it  to  save 
his  neck  from  the  loop.  In  my  opinion  there  never 
will  be  any  happy  unions  between  men  and  women 
till  men  quit  thinking  so  much  about  the  weakness 
of  women's  bodies  and  so  little  of  the  strength  of 
their  souls.  The  view  you  had  that  night  of  the 
dark  valley  of  a  living  death,  and  your  escape  from 
it,  has  lifted  you  into  a  purity  undreamt  of  by  the 
average  woman.  If  Luke  King's  able  to  comprehend 
that,  he  may  get  him  a  wife  on  the  open  mountain- 
top  ;  if  not,  he  can  find  her  in  the  bushes  at  the  foot. 
He'll  obey  his  natural  law,  as  you  and  I  will  ours." 


XXIX 

[N  dire  dread  of  facing  the  anger  of  his 
father,  who  was  expected  back  from 
Savannah,  for  having  sold  the  horse 
which  the  Colonel  himself  was  fond  of 
riding,  and  being  in  the  lowest  dregs 
of  despondency  and  chagrin  over  the  humiliating 
turn  his  affair  with  Virginia  had  taken,  Langdon 
Chester  packed  his  travelling-bag  and  hurried  off  to 
Atlanta. 

There  he  had  a  middle-aged  bachelor  cousin, 
Chester  Sively,  who  was  as  fair  an  example  as  one 
could  well  find  of  the  antebellum  Southern  man  of 
the  world  carried  forward  into  a  new  generation 
and  a  more  active  and  progressive  environment. 
Fortunately  for  him,  he  had  inherited  a  considerable 
fortune,  and  he  was  enabled  to  live  in  somewhat  the 
same  ease  as  had  his  aristocratic  forebears.  He  had 
a  luxurious  suite  of  rooms  in  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
houses  in  Peachtree  Street,  where  he  always  wel- 
comed Langdon  as  his  guest,  in  return  for  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  latter  during  the  hunting  season  on 
the  plantation. 

"Another  row  with  the  head  of  the  house?"  he 
smiled,  as  he  rose  from  his  easy-chair  at  a  smoking- 
table  to  shake  hands  with  the  new  arrival,  who, 
hot  and  dusty,  had  alighted  from  a  rickety  cab, 

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Ann    Boyd 

driven  by  a  sleepy  negro  in  a  battered  silk  top-hat, 
and  sauntered  in,  looking  anything  but  cheerful. 

"Why  did  you  think  that?"  Langdon  asked,  after 
the  negro  had  put  down  his  bag  and  gone. 

"Why?  Oh,  because  it  has  been  brewing  for  a 
long  time,  old  chap,"  Sively  smiled;  "and  because 
it  is  as  natural  for  old  people  to  want  to  curb  the 
young  as  it  is  for  them  to  forget  their  own  youth. 
When  I  was  up  there  last,  Uncle  Pres  could  scarcely 
talk  of  anything  but  your  numerous  escapades." 

"We  didn't  actually  have  the  row"  Langdon 
sighed,  "but  it  would  have  come  if  I  hadn't  lit  out 
before  he  got  back  from  Savannah.  The  truth  is" 
— the  visitor  dropped  his  eyes — "he  has  allowed  me 
almost  no  pocket-money  of  late,  and,  getting  in  a 
tight  place — debts,  you  know,  and  one  thing  and 
another — I  let  my  best  horse  go  at  a  sacrifice  the 
other  day.  Father  likes  to  ride  him,  and  he's  going 
to  raise  sand  about  it.  Oh,  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
so  I  came  away.  It  will  blow  over,  you  know,  but 
it  will  do  so  quicker  if  I'm  here  and  he's  there. 
Besides,  he  is  always  nagging  me  about  having  no 
profession  or  regular  business,  and  if  I  see  a  fair 
opening  down  here,  I'm  really  going  to  work." 

' '  You  '11  never  do  it  in  this  world . ' '  Sively  laughed , 
and  his  dark  eyes  flashed  merrily  as  he  pulled  at  his 
well-trained  mustache.  "  You  can  no  more  do  that 
sort  of  thing  than  a  cat-fish  can  hop  about  in  a 
bird-cage.  In  an  office  or  bank  you'd  simply  pine 
away  and  die.  Your  ancestors  lived  in  the  open 
air,  with  other  people  to  work  for  them,  and  you  are 
simply  too  near  that  period  to  do  otherwise.  I 
know,  my  boy,  because  I've  tried  to  work.  If  I 

280 


Ann   Boyd 

didn't  have  private  interests  that  pin  me  down  to 
a  sort  of  routine,  I'd  be  as  helpless  as  you  are." 

"You  are  right,  I  reckon."  Langdon  reached 
out  to  the  copper  bowl  on  the  table  and  took  a 
cigar.  "I  know,  somehow,  that  the  few  business 
openings  I  have  heard  of  now  and  then  have  simply 
sickened  me.  When  I  get  as  much  city  life  as  is 
good  for  me  down  here,  I  like  to  run  back  to  the 
mountains.  Up  there  I  can  take  my  pipe  and  gun 
and  dog  and — " 

"And  enjoy  life  right;  you  bet  you  can,"  Sively 
said,  enthusiastically.  "Well,  after  all,  it's  six  of 
one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other.  My  life  isn't  all 
it's  cracked  up  to  be  by  men  who  say  they  are 
yearning  for  it.  Between  you  and  me,  I  feel  like 
a  defunct  something  or  other  when  I  hear  these 
thoroughly  up-to-date  chaps  talking  at  the  club 
about  their  big  enterprises  which  they  are  making 
go  by  the  very  skin  of  their  teeth.  Why,  I  know 
one  fellow  under  thirty  who  has  got  every  electric 
car-line  in  the  city  tied  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 
I  know  another  who  is  about  to  get  Northern  back- 
ing for  a  new  railroad  from  here  to  Asheville,  which 
he  started  on  nothing  but  a  scrap  of  club  writing- 
paper  one  afternoon  over  a  bottle  of  beer.  Then 
there  is  that  darned  chap  from  up  your  way,  Luke 
King.  He's  a  corker.  He  had  little  education,  I 
am  told,  and  sprang  from  the  lowest  cracker  stock, 
but  he's  the  sensation  of  the  hour  down  here." 

"  He's  doing  well,  then,"  Langdon  said,  a  touch  of 
anger  in  his  tone  as  he  recalled  Virginia's  reference 
to  King  on  their  last  meeting. 

"Well?  You'd  think  so.  Half  the  capitalists  in 
19  281 


Ann    Boyd 

Atlanta  are  daft  about  him.  They  call  him  a  great 
political,  financial,  and  moral  force,  with  a  brain  as 
big  as  Abraham  Lincoln's.  I  was  an  idiot.  I  had 
a  chance  to  get  in  on  the  ground-floor  when  that 
paper  of  his  started,  but  I  was  wise — I  was  know- 
ing. When  I  heard  the  manager  of  the  thing  was 
the  son  of  one  of  your  father's  old  tenants,  I  pulled 
down  one  corner  of  my  eye  and  turned  him  over  to 
my  financial  rivals.  You  bet  I  see  my  mistake  now. 
The  stock  is  worth  two  for  one,  and  not  a  scrap  on 
the  market  at  that.  Do  you  know  what  the  direc- 
tors did  the  other  day?  When  folks  do  it  for  you 
or  me  we  will  feel  flattered.  They  insured  his  life 
for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  because  if  he 
were  to  die  the  enterprise  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to 
stand  on.  You  see,  it's  all  in  his  big  brain.  I  sup- 
pose you  know  something  about  his  boyhood?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Langdon  said,  testily;  "we  were  near 
the  same  age,  and  met  now  and  then,  but,  you  know, 
at  that  time  our  house  was  so  full  of  visitors  that  I 
had  little  chance  to  see  much  of  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  then  he  went  West." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Sively,  "and  that's  where  his 
boom  started.  They  are  circulating  some  odd  sto- 
ries on  him  down  here,  but  I  take  them  all  with 
a  grain  of  salt.  They  say  he  sold  out  his  Western 
interests  for  a  good  sum  and  gave  every  red  cent 
of  it  to  his  poor  old  mother  and  step-father." 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Langdon.  "I  happen  to 
know  that  it  is  absolutely  true.  When  he  got  back 
he  found  his  folks  in  a  pretty  bad  shape,  and  he 
bought  a  good  farm  for  them." 

"Well,  I  call  that  a  brave  thing,"  said  the  older 
282 


Ann    Boyd 

man — "a  thing  I  couldn't  do  to  save  my  neck  from 
the  halter.  No  wonder  his  editorials  have  stirred 
up  the  reading  public;  he  means  what  he  says. 
He's  the  most  conspicuous  man  in  Atlanta  to-day. 
But,  say,  you  want  to  go  to  your  room,  and  I'm 
keeping  you.  Go  in  and  make  yourself  comfort- 
able. I  may  not  get  to  see  much  of  you  for  two  or 
three  days.  I  have  to  run  out  of  town  with  some 
men  from  Boston  who  are  with  me  in  a  deal  for  some 
coal  and  iron  land,  but  I'll  see  you  when  I  return." 

"Oh,  I  can  get  along  all  right,  thanks,"  Langdon 
said,  as  Pomp,  Sively's  negro  man-servant,  came  for 
his  bag  in  obedience  to  his  master's  ring. 

Three  days  later,  on  his  return  to  town  from  a 
trip  to  the  country,  Sively,  not  seeing  anything  of 
his  guest,  asked  Pomp  where  he  was. 

"Don't  know  whar  he  is  now,  boss,"  the  negro 
said,  dryly.  "I  haint  seed  'im  since  dis  mawnin', 
when  he  got  out  o'  bed  an'  had  me  shave  'im  up 
an'  bresh  his  clothes.  I  tell  you,  Marse  Sively,  dat 
man's  doin'  powerful  funny.  He's  certainly  gone 
wrong  somehow." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  the  bachelor  asked, 
in  alarm.  "He  looked  all  right  when  he  got  here." 

"Huh,  I  don't  know  what  ails  'im,  suh,"  the 
negro  grunted,  "but  I  kin  see  he's  actin'  curious. 
Dat  fust  mawnin'  when  I  went  in  his  room  to  clean 
up  an'  make  de  baid  I  come  in  easy  like  to  keep  fum 
wakin'  'im,  but,  bless  you,  he  was  already  up,  stand- 
in'  at  de  window  lookin'  out  in  de  street  an'  actually 
groanin'  to  hisse'f  like  some'n'  was  wrong  wid  his 
insides.  I  axed  'im  what  was  de  matter,  an'  if  he 
wants  me  to  telephone  fer  de  doctor,  but  he  lit  in 

283 


Ann    Boyd 

to  cussin'  me  at  sech  a  rate  dat  I  seed  it  wasn't  any 
ailment  o'  de  flesh,  anyway.  He  ordered  me  to  go 
to  de  caf6  fer  his  breakfast,  an'  I  fetched  'im  what  he 
always  did  fancy — fried  chicken,  eggs  on  toast,  an' 
coffee  wid  whipped  cream  —  but,  bless  you,  he  let 
'em  get  stone  cold  on  de  table,  an'  wouldn't  touch 
a  thing  but  what  was  in  yo'  decanter." 

"You  don't  tell  me,"  Sively  said,  anxiously. 
"What  has  he  been  doing  of  evenings?  Did  he  go 
to  the  Kimball  House  dance?  I  had  Colville  send 
him  tickets.  The  Williamsons  asked  him  to  their 
card-party,  too.  Did  he  go?" 

"Not  a  step,"  Pomp  replied.  "He  had  me  lay 
out  his  claw-hammer  coat  an'  get  it  pressed  at 
de  tailor -shop  dat  fust  night,  and  stirred  around 
considerable,  wid  several  drinks  in  'im.  He  even 
had  me  clean  his  patent-leather  pumps  and  ordered 
a  cab  fum  de  stable.  Said  he  wasn't  goin'  to  ride  in 
one  o'  dem  rickety  street  hacks  wid  numbers  on  'em 
an'  disgrace  you.  But,  suh,  de  cab  come  an'  I  had 
everything  out  clean  on  de  baid  even  to  a  fresh 
tube -rose  for  his  button -hole.  He  sat  around 
smokin'  and  runnin'  fer  de  decanter  ever'  now  and 
den,  but  wouldn't  take  off  a  rag  of  his  old  clothes, 
an'  kept  walkin'  de  flo',  fust  to  de  winder  an'  den 
back  to  de  lounge,  whar  he'd  throw  hisse'f  down  at 
full  length  an'  roll  an'  toss  like  he  had  de  cramps. 
I  went  to  'im,  I  did,  at  ten  o'clock,  an'  told  'im  he 
was  gwine  to  miss  de  grand  promenade  an'  let  all 
de  rest  of  'em  fill  up  de  ladies'  cards,  but  he  stared 
at  me,  suh,  like  he  didn't  know  what  I  was  talkin' 
about,  an'  den  he  come  to  his  senses,  an'  told  me  he 
wasn't  goin'  to  no  dance.  He  went  to  de  window 

284 


Ann   Boyd 

an'  ordered  de  cab  off.  De  next  mawnin'  he  had 
all  his  nice  dress-suit  stuffed  in  a  wad  in  his  valise. 
It  was  a  sight,  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  an'  he  was  set- 
tin'  on  de  baid  smoking.  He  said  he'd  had  enough 
o'  dis  town,  an'  believed  he'd  take  de  train  home; 
but  he  didn't,  suh.  De  next  night  I  was  sho' 
oneasy,  an'  I  watched  'im  de  best  I  could  widout 
makin'  'im  mad.  He  et  a  bite  o'  de  supper  I  fetched 
'im,  and  den,  atter  dark,  he  started  out  on  foot.  I 
followed  'im,  kase  I  'lowed  you'd  want  me  to  ef  you 
was  here." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Sively  said;  "and  where  did  he 
go?" 

"Nowhar,  suh  —  dat  is,  he  didn't  stop  a  single 
place.  He  just  walked  and  walked  everywhar  and 
anywhar.  It  didn't  make  no  odds  to  him,  jest  so 
he  was  movin'  his  laigs.  He  must  'a'  covered  five 
good  miles  in  de  most  zigzag  travellin'  you  ever 
seed  —  went  clean  to  de  gate  o'  de  Exposition 
grounds,  an'  den  back,  an'  plumb  round  de  Capitol 
and  out  Washington  Street,  wid  me  on  his  scent 
like  a  blood -hound  after  a  runaway  nigger;  but 
dar  wasn't  much  danger  o'  me  bein'  seen,  fer  he 
didn't  look  round.  Well,  he  finally  turned  an' 
come  home  an'  tumbled  in  baid  about  two  in  de 
mawnin'.  Yesterday  de  Williamson  ladies  an'  deir 
maw  driv'  up  to  de  do'  an'  axed  about  'im.  Dey 
said  he  was  down  on  de  list  fer  dinner  at  dey  house, 
an',  as  he  didn't  come  or  send  no  word,  dey  'lowed 
he  was  laid  up  sick.  De  lawd  knows,  I  didn't  know 
what  to  tell  'em.  I've  got  myse'f  in  trouble  befo' 
now  lyin'  fer  white  men  widout  knowin'  what  I  was 
lyin'  about,  an'  I  let  dat  chance  slide,  an'  told  'em 

285 


Ann  Boyd 

I  didn't  know  a  blessed  thing  about  it.  Dey  driv' 
off  in  a  big  huff ;  all  three  dey  backs  was  as  straight 
as  a  ironin'-board." 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  he  is  now?"  Sively 
inquired,  anxiously. 

"I  think  he's  over  at  de  club,  suh.  De  waiters 
in  de  cafe  told  me  dat  he  makes  a  habit  o'  loungin' 
round  de  back  smokin'-room  by  hisse'f." 

"Drinking?" 

"  No,  suh — dat  is,  not  any  mo'n  he  kin  tote.  He 
walks  straight  enough,  it  jest  seems  like  it's  some'n' 
wrong  in  his  mind,  Marse  Sively,"  and  Pomp  touched 
his  black  brow  significantly. 

"Well,"  Sively  said,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"order  the  horses  and  trap.  If  I  can  find  him  I'll 
take  him  out  to  the  Driving  Club.  I'm  glad  I  got 
back.  I'll  take  him  in  hand.  Between  me  and 
you,  Pomp,  I  think  he's  had  bad  news  from  his 
father.  I'm  afraid  my  uncle  has  really  laid  down 
the  law  to  him,  cut  off  his  spending-money,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind." 


XXX 

>N  the  darkest  corner  of  the  quietest 
room  in  the  club,  Sively  found  his 
cousin  gloomily  smoking  a  cigar,  a  bot- 
tle of  brandy  on  a  table  near  him, 
and  a  copy  of  Luke  King's  paper  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet.  As  he  looked  up  his  eyes  had 
a  shifting  glare  in  them,  and  there  was  an  air  of 
utter  dejection  on  him,  though,  on  recognizing  his 
cousin,  he  made  a  valiant  effort  to  appear  at  ease. 
"Oh,  you  are  back,  are  you?"  he  said,  awkwardly, 
flicking  the  ashes  of  his  cigar  over  a  tray. 

"Yes,  just  in,  old  boy,  and  I've  got  my  horses 
out  for  a  spin  to  the  Driving  Club.  Come  along. 
The  whole  town  is  out  on  wheels;  the  afternoon  is 
perfect.  The  idea  of  your  sitting  cooped  up  here,  in 
smoke  thick  enough  to  cut  with  an  axe,  when  you 
ought  to  be  filling  your  lungs  with  ozone  and  enjoy- 
ing life!" 

Langdon  hesitated,  but  it  was  evident  that  he 
could  formulate  no  reasonable  excuse  for  declining 
the  invitation,  and  so  he  reluctantly  gave  in.  "  Let 
me  get  my  hat,"  he  said,  and  together  they  strolled 
down  the  wide  entrance-hall  to  the  hat-rack. 

"I  felt  rather  uneasy  when  I  missed  you  at  my 
rooms,"  Sively  remarked,  as  they  were  approaching 
the  trap  at  the  door.  "  Pomp  could  give  no  account 

287 


Ann    Boyd 

of  you,  and  I  didn't  know  but  what  you'd  skipped 
out  for  home.  Have  a  good  time  while  I  was  away  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,"  Chester  answered,  as  he  got  into 
the  vehicle  and  began  to  adjust  the  lap-robes  about 
him.  "I  got  along  all  right.  You  see,  old  man, 
I'm  sort  of  getting  on  the  social  retired-list.  Living 
in  the  country,  where  we  have  few  formalities,  has 
turned  me  somewhat  against  your  teas,  dinners,  and 
dances.  I  never  go  without  feeling  out  of  it  some- 
how. You  Atlanta  men  seem  to  know  how  to  com- 
bine business  and  society  pretty  well;  but,  having 
no  business  when  I'm  here,  I  get  sick  of  doing  the 
other  thing  exclusively." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Sively,  who  was  too  deeply 
versed  in  human  nature  to  be  misled. 

As  they  sped  along  the  smooth  asphalt  pavement 
of  Peachtree  Street,  dodging  trolley-cars  and  pass- 
ing or  meeting  open  vehicles  filled  with  pleasure- 
seekers,  Sively's  hat  and  arm  were  in  continual 
motion  bowing  to  friends  and  acquaintances.  The 
conversation  languished.  Sively  found  it  very  diffi- 
cult to  keep  it  going  as  he  noted  the  deep  lines  of 
care  which  marked  his  cousin's  face.  He  was  quite 
sure  something  of  a  very  serious  nature  had  happen- 
ed to  Langdon,  and  his  sympathies  were  deeply 
stirred. 

After  twenty  minutes'  brisk  driving,  they  reached 
the  club-house  and  entered  the  throng  of  fashionably 
dressed  men  and  women  distributed  about  at  the 
numerous  refreshment- tables  under  the  trees.  The 
club  was  on  a  slight  elevation,  and  below  them 
stretched  the  beautiful  greensward  of  the  extensive 
Exposition  grounds.  Several  of  the  liveried  ser- 

288 


Ann   Boyd 

vants,  recognizing  Sively,  approached  and  offered 
chairs  at  their  respective  tables,  but,  sensing  his 
cousin's  desire  not  to  be  thrown  with  others,  he  led 
the  way  through  the  laughing  and  chattering  as- 
semblage to  a  quiet  table  in  a  little  smoking-room 
quite  in  the  rear  of  the  building. 

"There,"  he  smiled,  "this  will  suit  you  better, 
I  know." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  will,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you," 
Chester  admitted,  with  a  breath  of  relief.  "The 
Lord  only  knows  what  I'd  talk  about  out  there  in 
that  chattering  gang." 

Sively  ordered  cigars,  and,  when  the  waiter  had 
gone  for  them,  he  said,  lightly:  "No  more  liquor  for 
you  to-day,  my  boy.  You  hold  your  own  all  right, 
but  you  are  too  nervous  to  take  any  more." 

"Nervous?  Do  you  think  so?  Do  I  look  it?" 
Chester  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  a  little,"  said  Sively.  He  was  taking 
a  bunch  of  cigars  from  the  waiter,  and,  when  he  had 
signed  his  name  to  the  accompanying  slip  of  paper, 
he  said,  "  Harry,  pull  the  door  to  after  you,  and  see 
that  we  are  not  disturbed." 

"Certainly,  sir." 

Langdon,  with  widening  eyes,  watched  the  negro 
as  he  went  out  and  closed  the  door,  then  he  glanced 
at  his  cousin  inquiringly. 

"I  want  to  be  alone  with  you,  my  boy,"  Sively 
said,  with  ill-assumed  ease.  "You  can  trust  me, 
you  know,  and — well,  the  truth  is,  my  boy,  I  want 
to  know  what  you  are  in  trouble  about." 

"  Me  ?     Good  gracious ! ' ' 

"Oh,  don't  begin  that!"  Sively  said,  firmly,  as  he 
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Ann   Boyd 

struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the  end  of  his  cigar. 
"I  won't  stand  it.  You  can't  keep  your  feelings 
from  me.  At  first,  when  Pomp  told  me  about  your 
not  going  out  to  those  affairs  when  I  was  away,  I 
thought  your  father  had  thrown  you  over  for  good 
and  all,  but  it  isn't  that.  My  uncle  couldn't  do  it, 
anyway.  You  are  in  trouble,  my  boy;  what  is  it?" 

Langdon  flushed  and  stared  defiantly  across  the 
table  into  the  fixed  eyes  of  his  cousin  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  looked  down. 

"No,  my  father  is  all  right,"  he  said.  "He's 
found  out  about  the  horse,  but  he  didn't  take  it  so 
very  hard.  In  fact,  he  went  to  Darley  and  bought 
him  back  for  only  a  slight  advance  on  what  I  sold 
him  for.  He  is  worried  about  me,  and  writes  for 
me  to  come  on  home." 

"Then,  as  I  supposed,  it  is  not  your  father,"  said 
Sively. 

There  was  a  pause.  Langdon,  with  bloodless 
fingers,  nervously  broke  his  cigar  half  in  two.  He 
took  another  and  listlessly  struck  a  match,  only  to 
let  its  flame  expire  without  using  it. 

"What's  the  trouble,  my  boy?"  pursued  Sively. 
"I  want  to  befriend  you  if  I  can.  I'm  older  than 
you." 

"Well,  I  am  in  trouble,"  Langdon  said,  simply. 
Then,  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  frequent  pauses, 
he  told  all  about  his  acquaintance  with  Virginia. 
Once  started,  he  left  out  no  dtotail,  extending  his 
confidence  till  it  had  included  an  humble  confession 
even  of  his  humiliation  by  Ann  Boyd  and  the  girl's 
bitter  words  of  contempt  a  few  days  later.  "Then 
I  had  to  come  away,"  Langdon  finished,  with  a  sigh 

290 


Ann  Boyd 

that  was  a  whispered  groan.  "I  couldn't  stand  it. 
I  thought  the  change,  the  life  and  excitement  down 
here,  would  make  me  forget,  but  it's  worse  than 
ever.  I'm  in  hell,  old  man — a  regular  hell." 

Sively  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  There  was  an 
expression  of  supreme  disgust  about  his  sensitive 
nose  and  mouth,  and  his  eyes  burned  with  indignant, 
spirit-fed  fires. 

"Great  God!"  he  exclaimed;  "and  it  was  that  girl 
— that  particular  one — Jane  Hemingway's  daugh- 
ter!" 

"You've  seen  her,  then?"  Langdon  said,  in 
awakening  surprise. 

"Seen  her?  Great  Heavens,  of  course,  I've  seen 
her,  and,  now  that  I  know  all  this,  her  sweet,  young 
face  will  never  go  out  of  my  mind — never  as  long 
as  life  is  in  me." 

"I  don't  exactly  see  —  I  don't  understand — " 
Langdon  began,  but  his  cousin  interrupted  him. 

"  I  had  a  talk  with  her  one  day,"  he  said,  feelingly. 
"  I  had  been  hunting  with  your  gun  and  dogs,  and 
stopped  at  her  mother's  house  to  get  a  drink  of 
water.  Virginia  was  the  only  one  at  home,  and  she 
brought  it  to  me  in  the  little  porch.  I've  met 
thousands  of  women,  Langdon,  but  her  beauty, 
grace,  intelligence,  and  dazzling  purity  affected  me 
as  I  never  was  before.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  her 
father,  but  do  you  know  what  I  thought  as  I  sat 
there  and  talked  M  her?  I  thought  that  I'd  give 
every  dollar  I  had  for  the  love  and  faith  of  such  a 
girl — to  leave  this  rotten  existence  here  and  settle 
down  there  in  the  mountains  to  earn  my  living  by 
the  sweat  of  my  brow.  It  was  almost  the  only  silly 

291 


Ann   Boyd 

dream  I  ever  had,  but  it  was  soon  over.  A  thou- 
sand times  since  that  day,  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
false  show  and  glitter,  my  mind  has  gone  back  to 
that  wonderful  girl.  She'd  read  books  I'd  never 
had  time  to  open,  and  talked  about  them  as  freely 
and  naturally  as  I  would  about  things  of  every- 
day life.  No  doubt  she  was  famished  for  what  all 
women,  good  or  bad,  love — the  admiration  of  men 
— and  so  she  listened  eagerly  to  your  slick  tongue. 
Oh,  I  know  what  you  said,  and  exactly  how  you 
said  it.  You've  inherited  that  gift,  my  boy,  but 
you've  inherited  something  —  perhaps  from  your 
mother — something  that  your  father  never  had  in 
his  make-up — you've  inherited  a  capacity  for  re- 
morse, self  -  contempt,  the  throes  of  an  outraged 
conscience.  I'm  a  man  of  the  world — I  don't  go  to 
church,  I  play  cards,  I  race  horses,  I've  gone  all 
the  gaits — but  I  know  there  is  something  in  most 
men  which  turns  their  souls  sick  when  they  conscious- 
ly commit  crime.  Crime  ! — yes,  that's  it — don't  stop 
me.  I  used  a  strong  word,  but  it  must  go.  There 
are  men  who  would  ten  thousand  times  rather  shoot 
a  strong,  able-bodied  man  dead  in  his  tracks  than 
beguile  a  young  girl  to  the  brink  of  doom  (of  all 
ways)  as  you  did — blinding  her  to  her  own  danger 
by  the  holy  desire  to  save  her  mother's  life,  pulling 
her  as  it  were  by  her  very  torn  and  bleeding  heart- 
strings. God!" 

"Oh,  don't — don't  make  it  any  worse  than  it  is!" 
Langdon  groaned.  "What's  done's  done,  and,  if 
I'm  down  in  the  blackest  depths  of  despair  over  it, 
what's  the  use  to  kick  me?  I'm  helpless.  Do  you 
know  what  I  actually  thought  of  doing  this  morn- 

292 


Ann    Boyd 

ing?  I  actually  lay  in  bed  and  planned  my  es- 
cape. I  wanted  to  turn  on  the  gas,  but  I  knew 
it  would  never  do  its  work  in  that  big,  airy  room." 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  fool,  Langdon!"  Sively  said, 
suddenly  pulled  around.  "Never  think  of  such  a 
thing  again.  When  a  man  that  is  a  man  does  a 
wrong,  there  is  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  and 
that  is  to  set  it  right." 

"Set  it  right?  But  how?"  Langdon  cried,  al- 
most eagerly. 

"Why,  there  are  several  ways  to  make  a  stab 
at  it,  anyway,"  Sively  said ;  "  and  that  is  better  than 
wiping  your  feet  on  a  gentle  creature  and  then  go- 
ing off  and  smoking  a  gas-pipe.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  this:  do  you  love  that  girl,  really  and 
genuinely  love  her?" 

"Why,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Langdon;  "in  fact,  I 
now  know  it ;  if  I  didn't,  why  should  I  be  here  miser- 
able enough  to  die  about  what  has  happened  and 
her  later  treatment  of  me?" 

"I  couldn't  take  your  diagnosis  of  your  particu- 
lar malady."  Sively  puffed  thoughtfully  at  his 
cigar.  "  You'd  be  the  last  person,  really,  that  could 
decide  on  that.  There  are  some  men  in  the  world  who 
can't  tell  the  difference  between  love  and  passion, 
and  they  are  led  to  the  altar  by  one  as  often  as  the 
other.  But  the  passion-led  man  has  walked  through 
the  pink  gates  of  hell.  When  his  temporary  desire 
has  been  fed,  he'll  look  into  the  face  of  his  bride 
with  absolute  loathing  and  contempt.  She'll  be 
too  pure,  as  a  rule,  to  understand  the  chasm  be- 
tween them,  but  she  will  know  that  for  her,  at 
least,  marriage  is  a  failure.  Now,  if  I  thought  you 

293 


Ann    Boyd 

really  loved  that  pretty  girl — if  I  thought  you  really 
were  man  enough  to  devote  the  rest  of  your  days  to 
blotting  from  her  memory  the  black  events  of  that 
night;  if  I  thought  you'd  go  to  her  with  the  hot 
blood  of  hell  out  of  your  veins,  and  devote  yourself 
to  winning  her  just  as  some  young  man  on  her  own 
social  level  would  do,  paying  her  open  and  respect- 
ful attentions,  declaring  your  honorable  intentions 
to  her  relatives  and  friends — if  I  thought  you  were 
man  enough  to  do  that,  in  spite  of  the  opposition 
of  your  father  and  mother,  then  I'd  glory  in  your 
spunk,  and  I'd  think  more  of  you,  my  poor  boy, 
than  I  ever  have  in  all  my  life." 

Langdon  leaned  forward.  He  had  felt  his  cousin's 
contemptuous  words  less  for  the  hope  they  em- 
bodied. "  Then  you  think  if  I  did  that,  she  might — " 

"I  don't  know  what  she'd  do,"  Sively  broke  in. 
"  I  only  know  that  when  you  finally  saw  her  after 
that  night  and  made  no  declarations  of  honorable 
intentions,  that  you  simply  emphasized  the  cold- 
blooded insult  of  what  had  already  happened.  She 
saw  in  your  following  her  up  only  a  desire  to  repeat 
the  conduct  which  had  so  nearly  entrapped  her. 
My  boy,  I  am  not  a  mean  judge  of  women,  and  I 
am  afraid  you  have  simply  lost  that  girl  forever. 
She  has  lowered  herself,  as  she  perhaps  looks  at  it, 
in  the  eyes  of  another  woman — the  one  who  saved 
her — and  her  young  eyes  have  been  torn  open  to 
things  she  was  too  pure  and  unsuspecting  even  to 
dream  of.  However,  all  her  life  she  has  heard  of 
the  misfortune  of  this  Mrs.  Boyd,  and  she  now  real- 
izes only  too  vividly  what  she  has  escaped.  It 
might  take  you  years  to  restore  her  confidence — to 

294 


Ann    Boyd 

prove  to  her  that  you  love  her  for  herself  alone,  but 
if  I  stood  in  your  shoes  I'd  do  it  if  it  took  me  a 
lifetime.  She  is  worth  it,  my  boy.  In  fact,  I'm 
afraid  she  is — now  pardon  me  for  being  so  blunt — 
but  I'm  afraid  she  is  superior  to  you  in  intellect. 
She  struck  me  as  being  a  most  wonderful  woman 
for  her  age.  Given  opportunity,  she'd  perhaps  out- 
strip you.  It  is  strange  that  she  has  had  so  little 
attention  paid  to  her.  Has  she  never  had  an  ad- 
mirer before?" 

Langdon  exhaled  a  deep  breath  before  replying. 
"That  is  something  I've  been  worried  about,"  he 
admitted.  "From  little  things  she  has  dropped 
I  imagine  this  same  Luke  King  used  to  be  very 
fond  of  her  before  he  left  for  the  West.  They  have 
met  since  he  got  back,  and  I'm  afraid  she — 

"Good  gracious!  that  puts  another  face  on  the 
business,"  said  Sively.  "I  don't  mean  any  dis- 
paragement to  you,  but  if — if  there  ever  was  any 
understanding  between  them,  and  he  has  come  back 
such  a  success,  why,  it  isn't  unlikely  that  you'd 
have  a  rival  worth  giving  attention  to.  A  man  of 
that  sort  rarely  ever  makes  a  mistake  in  marrying. 
If  he  is  after  that  girl,  you've  got  an  interesting 
fight  ahead  of  you — that  is,  if  you  intend  to  buck 
against  him.  Now,  I  see,  I've  made  you  mad." 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  let  a  man  of  his  birth  and 
rearing  thwart  me?"  Langdon  cried — "a  mountain 
cracker,  a  clodhopper,  an  uncouth,  unrefined — " 

"Stop!  you  are  going  too  far,"  said  Sively,  quick- 
ly. "Our  old  idea  that  refinement  can  only  come 
from  silk-lined  cradles  is  about  exploded.  It  seems 
to  me  that  refinement  is  as  natural  as  a  love  of  art, 

295 


Ann    Boyd 

music,  or  poetry.  And  not  only  has  that  chap  got 
refinement  of  a  decided  sort,  but  he's  got  a  certain 
sort  of  pride  that  makes  him  step  clean  over  a  rev- 
erence for  our  defunct  traditions.  When  he  meets 
a  scion  of  the  old  aristocracy  his  clear  eye  doesn't 
waver  as  he  stares  steadily  into  the  face  as  if  to  see 
if  the  old  regime  has  left  a  fragment  of  brains  there 
worth  inspecting.  Oh,  he  gets  along  all  right  in 
society!  The  Holts  had  him  at  the  club  reception 
and  dinner  the  other  night,  and  our  best  women 
were  actually  asking  to  be  introduced  to  him, 
and—" 

"But  why  are  you  telling  all  this  stuff  to  me?" 
Langdon  thundered,  as  he  rose  angrily  to  signify 
that  he  was  ready  to  go. 

"Why  do  I?"  Sively  said,  pacifically.  "Because 
you've  simply  got  to  know  the  genuine  strength  of 
your  rival,  if  he  is  that,  and  you  have  to  cross 
swords  with  him.  If  the  fellow  really  intends  to 
win  that  girl,  he  will  perhaps  display  a  power  in 
the  undertaking  that  you  never  saw.  I'd  as  soon 
fight  a  buzz-saw  with  bare  hands  as  to  tackle  him 
in  a  fight  for  a  woman's  love.  Oh,  I've  got  started, 
my  boy,  and  I'll  have  to  reel  it  all  off,  and  be  done 
with  it.  There  is  one  thing  you  may  get  mad  and 
jealous  enough  to  do — that  is,  in  case  you  are  this 
fellow  King's  rival— 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  did  you  start  to 
say?"  Langdon  glared  down  at  his  cousin. 

"  Why,  you  might — I  say  might — fall  low  enough 
to  try  to  use  the  poor  girl's  little  indiscretion  against 
her.  But  if  you  do,  my  boy,  I'll  go  back  on  you. 
I'll  do  it  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven.  I 

296 


Ann    Boyd 

wish  you  luck  with  her,  but  it  all  depends  on  you. 
If  you  will  be  a  man,  you  may  be  happy  in  the  end, 
get  a  beautiful,  trusting  wife,  and  wipe  the  mire  off 
your  soul  which  is  making  you  so  miserable.  Go 
straight  home  and  set  about  it  in  the  right  way. 
Begin  with  a  humble  proposal  of  marriage.  That 
will  show  your  intentions  at  the  outset.  Now,  let's 
get  out  in  the  open  air." 

They  walked  through  the  gay  throng  again  to  the 
carriage,  and  as  they  were  getting  in  Langdon  said, 
almost  cheerfully:  "I'm  going  to  take  your  advice. 
I  know  I  love  her,  honestly  and  truly,  for  I  want 
her  with  every  nerve  in  my  body.  I  haven't  slept 
a  single  night  through  since  the  thing  happened. 
I've  simply  been  crazy." 

"Well,  the  whole  thing  lies  with  you,"  said  Sively. 
"The  girl  must  have  cared  something  for  you  at  one 
time,  and  you  must  recover  your  lost  place  in  her 
estimation.  A  humble  proposal  of  marriage  will, 
in  my  judgment,  soften  her  more  than  anything  else. 
It  will  be  balm  to  her  wounded  pride,  too,  and  you 
may  win.  You've  got  a  fair  chance.  Most  poor 
mountain  girls  would  be  flattered  by  the  opportunity 
to  marry  a  man  above  them  in  social  position,  and 
she  may  be  that  way.  Be  a  man,  and  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  your  father's  objections.  When  the  proper 
time  comes,  I'll  talk  to  him." 


XXXI 

fFTER  leaving  Atlanta,  with  only  lu-r 
normal  strength  and  flesh  to  regain, 
Jane  Hemingway  returned  to  her 
mountain  home  in  most  excellent  spir- 

its.     She  had  heartily  enjoyed  her  stay, 

and  was  quite  in  her  best  mood  before  the  eager 
group  of  neighbors  who  gathered  at  her  cottage  the 
afternoon  of  her  return. 

"What  /  can't  understand,"  remarked  old  Mrs. 
Penuckle,  "is  why  you  don't  say  more  about  the 
cutting.  Why,  the  knife  wasn't  going  into  me  at 
all,  and  yet  on  the  day  I  thought  the  doctors  would 
be  at  work  on  you  I  couldn't  eat  my  dinner.  I  went 
around  shuddering,  fancying  I  could  feel  the  blade 
rake,  rake  through  my  vitals.  Wasn't  you  awfully 
afraid?" 

"Bless  your  soul,  no!"  Jane  laughed  merrily. 
"There  wasn't  a  bit  more  of  a  quiver  on  me  than 
there  is  right  now.  We  was  all  talking  in  a  funny 
sort  of  way  and  passing  jokes  to  the  last  minute 
before  they  gave  me  ether.  They  gave  it  to  me 
in  a  tin  thing  full  of  cotton  that  they  clapped  over 
my  mouth  and  nose.  I  had  to  laugh,  I  remember, 
for,  just  as  he  got  ready,  Dr  JPutnam  said,  with  his  sly 
grin, '  Look  here,  I'm  going  to  muzzle  you,  old  lady, 
so  you  can't  talk  any  more  about  your  neighbors." 

298 


Ann    Boyd 

"Well,  he  certainly  give  you  a  bliff  there  with- 
out knowing  it,"  remarked  Sam  Hemingway,  dryly. 
"But  he's  a  fool  if  he  thinks  a  tin  thing  full  o' drugs 
would  do  that." 

"Oh,  go  on  and  tell  us  about  the  cutting,"  said 
Mrs.  Penuckle,  wholly  oblivious  of  Sam's  sarcasm. 
"That's  what  /  come  to  hear  about." 

"Well,  I  reckon  getting  under  that  ether  was  the 
toughest  part  of  the  job,"  Jane  smiled.  "I  took 
one  deep  whiff  of  it,  and  I  give  you  my  word  I 
thought  the  pesky  stuff  had  burnt  the  lining  out  of 
my.  windpipe.  But  Dr.  Putnam  told  me  he'd  give 
it  to  me  more  gradual,  and  he  did.  It  still  burnt 
some,  but  it  begun  to  get  easy,  and  I  drifted  off 
into  the  pleasantest  sleep,  I  reckon,  I  ever  had. 
When  I  come  to  and  found  nobody  in  the  room  but 
a  girl  in  a  white  apron  and  a  granny's  cap,  I  was 
afraid  they  had  decided  not  to  operate,  and,  when  I 
asked  her  if  there 'd  been  any  hitch,  she  smiled  and 
said  it  was  all  over,  and  I  wouldn't  have  nothing  to 
do  but  lie  still  and  pick  up." 

"  It's  wonderful  how  fine  they've  got  things  down 
these  days,"  commented  Sam.  "Ten  years  ago  folks 
looked  on  an  operation  like  that  as  next  to  a  funeral, 
but  it's  been  about  the  only  picnic  Jane's  had  since 
she  was  flying  around  with  the  boys." 

The  subject  of  this  jest  joined  the  others  in  a 
good-natured  laugh.  "There  was  just  one  thing  on 
my  mind  to  bother  me,"  she  said,  somewhat  more 
seriously,  "and  that  was  wondering  who  gave  that 
money  to  Virginia.  Naturally  a  thing  like  that 
would  pester  a  person,  especially  where  it  was  such 
a  big  benefit.  I've  been  at  Virginia  to  tell  me,  or 

299 


Ann  Boyd 

give  me  some  hint  so  I  could  find  out  myself,  but 
the  poor  child  looks  awfully  embarrassed,  and  keeps 
reminding  me  of  her  promise.  I  reckon  there  isn't 
but  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  is  to  let  it  rest." 

"There's  only  one  person  round  here  that's  got 
any  spare  money,"  said  Sam  Hemingway,  quite 
with  a  straight  face,  "and  it  happens,  too,  that 
she'd  like  to  have  a  thing  like  that  done." 

"Why,  who  do  you  mean,  Sam?"  His  sister-in- 
law  fell  into  his  trap,  as  she  sat  staring  at  him 
blandly. 

"Why,  it's  Ann  Boyd— old  Sister  Ann.  She'd  pay 
for  a  job  like  that  on  the  bare  chance  of  the  saw- 
bones making  a  miss-lick  and  cutting  too  deep,  or 
blood-pizen  sett  in'  in." 

"  Don't  mention  that  woman's  name  to  me!"  Jane 
said,  angrily.  "You  know  it  makes  me  mad,  and 
that's  why  you  do  it.  I  tried  to  keep  a  humble  and 
contrite  heart  in  me  down  there;  but,  folks,  I'm 
going  to  confess  to  you  all  that  the  chief  joy  I  felt 
in  getting  my  health  back  was  on  account  of  that 
woman's  disappointment.  I  never  mentioned  it  till 
now,  but  that  meddlesome  old  hag  actually  knew 
about  my  ailment  long  before  I  let  it  out  to  a  soul. 
Like  a  fool,  I  bought  some  fake  medicine  from  a 
tramp  peddler  one  day,  and  let  him  examine  me. 
He  went  straight  over  to  Ann  Boyd's  and  told  her. 
Oh,  I  know  he  did,  for  she  met  me  at  the  wash-hole, 
during  the  hot  spell,  when  water  was  scarce,  and 
actually  gloated  over  my  coming  misfortune.  She 
wouldn't  say  what  the  ill-luck  was,  but  I  knew  what 
she  was  talking  about  and  where  she  got  her  in- 
formation." 

300 


Ann    Boyd 

"  I  never  thought  that  old  wench  was  as  black  as 
she  was  painted,"  Sam  declared,  with  as  much  firm- 
ness as  he  could  command  in  the  presence  of  so 
much  femininity.  "If  this  had  been  a  community 
of  men,  instead  of  three-fourths  the  other  sort,  she'd 
have  been  reinstated  long  before  this.  I'll  bet,  if 
the  Scriptural  injunction  for  the  innocent  to  cast 
the  first  stone  was  obeyed,  there  wouldn't  be  no 
hail-storm  o'  rocks  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  Oh,  she  would  just  suit  a  lot  of  men!"  Jane  said, 
in  a  tone  which  indicated  the  very  lowest  estimation 
of  her  brother-in-law's  opinion.  "It  takes  women 
to  size  up  women.  I  want  to  meet  the  old  thing  now, 
just  to  show  her  that  I'm  still  alive  and  kicking." 

Jane  had  this  opportunity  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected. Dr.  Putnam  had  enjoined  upon  her  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  physical  exercise,  and  so  one  after- 
noon, shortly  after  getting  back,  she  walked  slow- 
ly down  to  Wilson's  store.  It  was  on  her  return 
homeward,  while  passing  a  portion  of  Ann's  pasture, 
where  the  latter,  with  pencil  and  paper  in  hand,  was 
laying  out  some  ditches  for  drainage,  that  she  saw 
her  opportunity. 

"Now,  if  she  don't  turn  and  run,  I'll  get  a  whack 
at  her,"  she  chuckled.  "It  will  literally  kill  the  old 
thing  to  see  me  walking  so  spry." 

Thereupon,  in  advancing,  Jane  quickened  her  step, 
putting  a  sort  of  jaunty  swing  to  her  whole  gaunt 
frame.  With  only  the  worm  fence  and  its  rough 
clothing  of  wild  vines  and  briers  between  them,  the 
women  met  face  to  face.  There  was  a  strange, 
unaggressive  wavering  in  Ann's  eyes,  but  her  enemy 
did  not  heed  it. 

301 


Ann   Boyd 

"Ah  ha!"  she  cried.  "I  reckon  this  is  some  sur- 
prise to  you,  Ann  Boyd!  I  reckon  you  won't  brag 
about  being  such  a  wonderful  health  prophet  now! 
I  was  told  down  in  Atlanta — by  experts,  mind  you — 
that  my  heart  and  lungs  were  as  sound  as  a  dollar, 
and  that,  counting  on  the  long  lives  of  my  folks  on 
both  sides,  I'm  good  for  fifty  years  yet." 

"Huh!  I  never  gave  any  opinion  on  how  long 
you'd  live,  that  I  know  of,"  Ann  said,  sharply. 

"  You  didn't,  heigh  ?  You  didn't,  that  day  at  the 
wash-place  when  you  stood  over  me  and  shook  your 
finger  in  my  face  and  said  you  knew  what  my  trouble 
was,  and  was  waiting  to  see  it  get  me  down  ?  Now, 
I  reckon  you  remember!" 

"I  don't  remember  saying  one  word  about  your 
cancer,  if  that's  what  you  are  talking  about,"  Ann 
sniffed.  "  I  couldn't  'a'  said  anything  about  it,  for 
I  didn't  know  you  had  it." 

"Now,  I  know  that's  not  so;  you  are  just  try- 
ing to  take  backwater,  because  you  are  beat.  That 
peddler  that  examined  me  and  sold  me  a  bottle  of 
medicine  went  right  to  your  house,  and  you  pumped 
him  dry  as  to  my  condition." 

"  Huh!  he  said  you  just  had  a  stiff  arm,"  said  Ann. 
"I  wasn't  alluding  to  that  at  all." 

"You  say  you  wasn't,  then  what  was  you  talking 
about?  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Well,  that's  for  me  to  know  and  you  to  find 
out,"  Ann  said,  goaded  to  anger.  "I  don't  have  to 
tell  you  all  I  know  and  think.  Now,  you  go  on 
about  your  business,  Jane  Hemingway,  and  let  me 
alone." 

"I'll  never  let  you  alone  as  long  as  there's  a 
302 


Ann    Boyd 

breath  left  in  my  body,"  Jane  snarled.  "  You  know 
what  you  are;  you  are  a  disgrace  to  the  county. 
You  are  a  close-fisted,  bad  woman — as  bad  as  they 
make  them.  You  ought  to  be  drummed  out  of  the 
community,  and  you  would  be,  too,  if  you  didn't 
have  so  much  ill-gotten  gains  laid  up." 

There  was  a  pause,  for  Jane  was  out  of  breath. 
Ann  leaned  over  the  fence,  crushing  her  sheet  of 
paper  in  her  tense  fingers.  "I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing," she  said,  her  face  white,  her  eyes  flashing 
like  those  of  a  powerful  beast  goaded  to  desperation 
by  an  animal  too  small  and  agile  to  reach — •"  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing.  For  reasons  of  my  own  I've  tried 
to  listen  to  certain  spiritual  advice  about  loving 
enemies.  Jesus  Christ  laid  the  law  down,  but  He 
lived  before  you  was  born,  Jane  Hemingway. 
There  isn't  an  angel  at  God's  throne  to-day  that 
could  love  you.  I'd  as  soon  try  to  love  a  hissing 
rattlesnake,  standing  coiled  in  my  path,  as  such  a 
dried-up  bundle  of  devilment  as  you  are.  Could  I 
hit  back  at  you  now  ?  Could  I  ?  Huh !  I  could  tell 
you  something,  you  old  fool,  that  would  humble  you 
in  the  dust  at  my  feet  and  make  you  crawl  home  with 
your  nose  to  the  earth  like  a  whipped  dog.  And  I 
reckon  I'm  a  fool  not  to  do  it,  when  you  are  pushing 
me  this  way.  You  come  to  gloat  over  me  because 
your  rotten  body  feels  a  little  bit  stronger  than  it 
did.  I  could  make  you  forget  your  dirty  carcass. 
I  could  make  you  so  sick  at  the  soul  you'd  vomit  a 
prayer  for  mercy  every  minute  the  rest  of  your  life. 
But  I  won't  do  it,  as  mad  as  I  am.  I'll  not  do  it. 
You  go  your  way,  and  I'll  go  mine." 

Jane  Hemingway  stared  wildly.  The  light  of  tri- 
303 


Ann    Boyd 

umph  had  died  out  in  her  thin,  superstitious  face. 
She  leaned,  as  if  for  needed  support,  on  the  fence 
only  a  few  feet  from  her  enemy.  Superstition  was 
her  weakest  point,  and  it  was  only  natural  now  for 
her  to  fall  under  its  spell.  She  recalled  Ann's  fierce 
words  prophesying  some  mysterious  calamity  which 
was  to  overtake  her,  and  placed  them  beside  the 
words  she  had  just  had  hurled  at  her,  and  their  com- 
bined effect  was  deadening. 

"You  think  you  know  lots,"  she  found  herself 
saying,  mechanically. 

"Well,  I  know  what  I  know!"  Ann  retorted,  still 
furious.  "  You  go  on  about  your  business.  You'd 
better  let  me  alone,  woman.  Some  day  I  may  fasten 
these  two  hands  around  that  scrawny  neck  of  yours 
and  shake  some  decency  into  you." 

Jane  shrank  back  instinctively.  She  was  less  in- 
fluenced, however,  by  the  threat  of  bodily  harm  than 
by  the  sinister  hint,  now  looming  large  in  her  im- 
agination, that  had  preceded  it.  Ann  was  mov- 
ing away,  and  she  soon  found  herself  left  alone  with 
thoughts  which  made  any  but  agreeable  companions. 

"What  can  the  woman  mean?"  she  muttered,  as 
she  slowly  pursued  her  way.  "Maybe  she's  just 
doing  that  to  worry  me.  But  no,  she  was  in  earnest 
— dead  in  earnest — both  times.  She  never  says  things 
haphazard ;  she's  no  fool,  either.  It  must  be  some- 
thing simply  awful  or  she  wouldn't  mention  it  just 
that  way.  Now,  I'm  going  to  let  this  take  hold  of 
me  and  worry  me  night  and  day  like  the  cancer 
did." 

She  paused  and  stood  in  the  road  panting,  her 
hand,  by  force  of  habit,  resting  on  her  breast.  Look- 

304 


Ann    Boyd 

ing  across  the  meadow,  she  saw  Ann  Boyd  sturdily 
trudging  homeward  through  the  waist-high  bul- 
rushes. The  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  struck  the 
broad  back  of  the  hardy  outcast  and  illumined  the 
brown  cotton-land  which  stretched  on  beyond  her 
to  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Jane  Hemingway 
caught  her  breath  and  moved  on  homeward,  ponder- 
ing over  the  mystery  which  was  now  running  rife  in 
her  throbbing  brain.  Yes,  it  was  undoubtedly  some- 
thing terrible — but  what  ?  That  was  the  question — 
what? 

Reaching  home,  she  was  met  at  the  door  by  Vir- 
ginia, who  came  forward  solicitously  to  take  her 
shawl.  A  big  log-fire,  burning  in  the  wide  chimney 
of  the  sitting-room,  lighted  it  up  with  a  red  glow. 
Jane  sank  into  her  favorite  chair,  listlessly  holding 
in  her  hands  the  small  parcel  of  green  coffee  she  had 
bought  at  the  store. 

"Let  me  have  it,"  Virginia  said.  "I  must  parch 
it  and  grind  it  for  supper.  The  coffee  is  all  out." 

As  the  girl  moved  away  with  the  parcel,  Jane's 
eyes  followed  her.  "Should  she  tell  her  daughter 
what  had  taken  place?"  she  asked  herself.  Per- 
haps a  younger,  fresher  mind  could  unravel  the  grave 
puzzle.  But  how  could  she  bring  up  the  matter 
without  betraying  the  fact  that  she  had  been  the 
aggressor?  No,  she  must  simply  nurse  her  new 
fears  in  secret  for  a  while  and  hope  for — well,  what 
could  she  hope  for,  anyway  ?  She  lowered  her  head, 
her  sharp  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  stared  into  the 
fire.  Surely  fate  was  against  her,  and  it  was  never 
intended  for  her  to  get  the  best  of  Ann  Boyd  in 
any  encounter.  Through  all  her  illness  she  had  been 

305 


Ann    Boyd 

buoyed  up  by  the  triumphant  picture  of  Ann  Boyd's 
chagrin  at  seeing  her  sound  of  body  again,  and  this 
had  been  the  result.  Instead  of  humiliating  Ann, 
Ann  had  filled  her  quaking  soul  with  a  thousand 
intangible,  rapidly  augmenting  fears.  The  cloud  of 
impending  disaster  stretched  black  and  lowering 
across  Jane  Hemingway's  horizon. 

Sam  came  in  with  a  bundle  of  roots  in  his  arms, 
and  laid  them  carefully  on  a  shelf.  "I've  dug  me 
some  sassafras  of  the  good,  red  variety,"  he  said, 
over  his  shoulder,  to  her.  "You  folks  that  want  to 
can  spend  money  at  drug  stores,  but  in  the  fall  of 
the  year,  if  I  drink  plenty  of  sassafras  tea  instead 
of  coffee,  it  thins  my  blood  and  puts  me  in  apple-pie 
order.  But  I  reckon  you  don't  want  your  blood  any 
thinner  than  them  doctors  left  it.  Right  now  you 
look  as  flabby  and  limber  as  a  wet  rag.  What  ails 
you,  anyway  f" 

"I  reckon  I  walked  too  far,  right  at  the  start," 
Jane  managed  to  fish  from  her  confused  mind.  "I'm 
going  to  be  more  careful  in  the  future." 

"Well,  you'd  better,"  Sam  opined.  "You  may 
not  find  folks  as  ready  to  invest  in  your  burial  outfit 
as  they  was  to  prevent  you  from  needing  one." 


XXXII 

!HE  following  morning,  in  her  neatest 
dress  and  white  sun-bonnet,  Virginia 
walked  to  Wilson's  store  to  buy  some 
sewing-thread.  She  was  on  her  way 
back,  and  was  traversing  the  most  se- 
questered part  of  the  road,  where  a  brook  of  clear 
mountain  water  ran  rippling  by,  and  an  abundance 
of  willows  and  reeds  hid  the  spot  from  view  of  any 
one  approaching,  when  she  was  startled  by  Langdon 
Chester  suddenly  appearing  before  her  from  behind 
a  big,  moss-grown  bowlder. 

"Don't  run,  Virginia — for  God's  sake  don't  run!" 
he  said,  humbly.  "I  simply  must  speak  to  you." 

"  But  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  to  meet  you  again," 
Virginia  answered,  sternly.  "Why  won't  you  leave 
me  alone?  If  I've  acted  the  fool  and  lowered  my- 
self in  my  estimation  for  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  that 
ought  to  be  enough.  It  is  as  much  as  I  can  stand. 
You've  simply  got  to  stop  following  me  up." 

"You  don't  understand,  Virginia,"  he  pleaded. 
"You  admit  you  feel  different  since  that  night; 
grant  the  same  to  me.  I've  passed  through  abso- 
lute torment.  I  thought,  after  you  talked  to  me 
so  angrily  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  that  I  could  for- 
get it  if  I  left.  I  went  to  Atlanta,  but  I  suffered 
worse  than  ever  down  there.  I  was  on  the  verge 


Ann   Boyd 

of  suicide.  You  see,  I  learned  how  dear  you  had 
become  to  me." 

"Bosh!  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!"  Virginia  re- 
torted, her  eyes  flashing,  though  her  face  was  death- 
ly pale.  "  I  don't  believe  any  man  could  really  care 
for  a  girl  and  treat  her  as  you  did  me  that  night. 
God  knows  I  did  wrong — a  wrong  that  will  never 
be  undone,  but  I  did  it  for  the  sake  of  my  suffering 
mother.  That's  the  only  thing  I  have  to  lessen  my 
self -contempt,  and  that  is  little ;  but  you — you — oh, 
I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you!  I  want  to  blot  it  all — 
everything  about  it — from  my  mind." 

"But  you  haven't  heard  me  through,"  he  said, 
advancing  a  step  nearer  to  her,  his  face  ablaze  with 
admiration  and  unsatisfied  passion.  "I  find  that 
I  simply  can't  live  without  you,  and  as  for  what 
happened  that  awful  night,  I've  come  to  wipe  it 
out  in  the  most  substantial  way  a  self-respecting 
man  can.  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  marry  me, 
Virginia — to  be  my  wife." 

"To  be  your  wife!"  she  gasped.  "Me — you — we 
marry — you  and  I?  Live  together,  as — " 

"Yes,  dear,  that's  what  I  mean.  I  know  you  are 
a  good,  pure  girl,  and  I  am  simply  miserable  with- 
out you.  No  human  being  could  imagine  the  depth 
of  my  love.  It  has  simply  driven  me  crazy,  along 
with  the  way  you  have  acted  lately.  My  father 
and  mother  may  object,  but  it's  got  to  be  done, 
and  it  will  all  blow  over.  Now,  Virginia,  what  will 
you  say?  I  leave  it  all  to  you.  You  may  name 
the  place  and  time — I'm  your  slave  from  now  on. 
Your  wonderful  grace  and  beauty  have  simply 
captured  me.  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  to  hold  up  my 

308 


Ann  Boyd 

end  of  the  thing.  My  cousin,  Chester  Sively,  is  a 
good  sort  of  chap,  and,  to  be  frank,  when  he  saw 
how  miserable  I  was  down  there,  he  drew  it  out  of 
me.  I  told  him  my  folks  would  object  and  make 
it  hot  for  me,  but  that  I  could  not  live  without  you, 
and  he  advised  me  to  come  straight  home  and  pro- 
pose to  you.  You  see,  he  thought  perhaps  I  had 
offended  you  in  not  making  my  intentions  plainer 
at  the  start,  and  that  when  you  knew  how  I  felt 
you  would  not  be  so  hard  on  me.  Now,  you  are 
not  going  to  be,  are  you,  little  girl  ?  After  all  those 
delicious  walks  we  used  to  have,  and  the  things 
you  have  at  least  let  me  believe,  I  know  you  won't 
go  back  on  me.  Oh,  we'll  have  a  glorious  time! 
Chester  will  advance  me  some  money,  I  am  sure, 
and  we'll  take  a  trip.  We'll  sail  from  Savannah 
to  New  York  and  stay  away,  by  George,  till  the  old 
folks  come  to  their  senses.  I  admit  I  was  wrong 
in  all  that  miserable  business.  I  ought  to  have 
given  you  that  money  and  not  made  you  come  for 
it,  but  being  a  mad  fool  like  that  once  doesn't 
prove  I  can't  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  Now,  you  try 
me." 

He  advanced  towards  her,  his  hand  extended  to 
clasp  hers,  but  she  suddenly  drew  back. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  marrying  you,"  she  said, 
almost  under  her  breath.  "I  couldn't  under  any 
possible  circumstances. ' ' 

"Oh,  Virginia,  you  don't  mean  that!"  he  cried, 
crestfallen.  "You  are  still  mad  about  being — being 
frightened  that  night,  and  that  old  hag  rinding  out 
about  it.  No  woman  would  relish  having  another 
come  up  at  just  such  an  awkward  moment  and  get 

309 


Ann    Boyd 

her  vile  old  head  full  of  all  sorts  of  unfair  notions. 
But  this,  you  see — you  are  old  enough  to  see  that 
marriage  actually  puts  everything  straight,  even  to 
the  bare  possibility  of  anything  ever  leaking  out. 
That's  why  I  think  you  will  act  sensibly." 

To  his  surprise,  Virginia,  without  looking  at  him, 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  He  saw  her  pretty 
shoulders  rise  as  if  she  had  smothered  a  sob.  Hoping 
that  she  was  moved  by  the  humility  and  earnest- 
ness of  his  appeal,  he  caught  one  of  her  hands  gently 
and  started  to  pull  it  from  her  face.  But,  to  his 
surprise,  she  shrank  back  and  stared  straight  and 
defiantly  in  his  eyes. 

"That's  the  way  you  look  at  it!"  she  cried,  in- 
dignantly. "You  think  I  hopelessly  compromised 
myself  by  what  I  did,  and  that  I'll  have  to  tie  my- 
self to  you  for  life  in  consequence;  but  I  won't. 
I'd  rather  die.  I  couldn't  live  with  you.  I  hate 
you !  I  detest  you !  I  hate  and  detest  you  because 
you've  made  me  detest  myself.  To  think  that  I 
have  to  stand  here  listening  to  a  proposal  in — in 
the  humiliating  way  you  make  it." 

"Look  here,  Virginia,  you  are  going  too  far!"  he 
cried,  white  with  the  dawning  realization  of  defeat 
and  quivering  in  every  limb.  "You  are  no  fool,  if 
you  are  only  a  girl,  and  you  know  that  a  man  in- 
well,  in  my  position,  will  not  take  a  thing  like  this 
calmly.  I've  been  desperate,  and  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  about,  but  this— I  can't  stand  this,  Vir- 
ginia." 

"Well,  I  couldn't  marry  you,"  she  answered. 
"  If  you  were  a  king  and  I  a  poor  beggar,  I  wouldn't 
agree  to  be  your  wife.  I'd  never  marry  a  man  I 

310 


Ann    Boyd 

did  not  thoroughly  respect,  and  I  don't  respect  you 
a  bit.  In  fact,  knowing  you  has  only  shown  me 
how  fine  and  noble,  by  contrast,  other  men  are. 
Since  this  thing  happened,  one  man — "  She  sud- 
denly paused.  Her  impulse  had  led  her  too  far. 
He  glared  at  her  for  an  instant,  and  then  suddenly 
grasped  her  hand  and  held  it  in  such  a  tight,  brutal 
clasp  that  she  writhed  in  pain,  but  he  held  onto  it, 
twisting  it  in  his  unconscious  fury. . 

"I  know  who  you  mean,"  he  said.  "I  see  it  all 
now.  You  have  seen  Luke  King,  and  he  has  been 
saying  sweet  things  to  you.  Ann  Boyd  is  his  friend, 
too,  and  she  hates  me.  But  look  here,  if  you  think 
I  will  stand  having  a  man  of  that  stamp  defeat  me, 
you  don't  know  me.  You  don't  know  the  lengths 
a  Chester  will  go  to  gain  a  point.  I  see  it  all. 
You've  been  different  of  late.  You  used  to  like 
him,  and  he  has  been  talking  to  you  since  he  got 
back.  It  will  certainly  be  a  dark  day  for  him  when 
he  dares  to  step  between  me  and  my  plans." 

"You  are  going  entirely  too  fast,"  Virginia  said, 
grown  suddenly  cautious.  "There's  nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing,  between  Luke  King  and  myself,  and, 
moreover,  there  never  will  be." 

"You  may  tell  that  to  a  bigger  fool  than  I  am," 
Chester  fumed.  "I  know  there  is  something  be- 
tween you  two,  and,  frankly,  trouble  is  brewing  for 
him.  He  may  write  his  long-winded  sermons  about 
loving  mankind,  and  bask  in  the  praise  of  the  senti- 
mental idiots  who  dote  on  him,  but  I'll  draw  him 
back  to  practical  things.  I'll  bring  him  down  to 
the  good,  old-fashioned  way  of  settling  matters  be- 
tween men." 


Ann    Boyd 

"Well,  it's  cowardly  of  you  to  keep  me  here  by 
brute  force,"  Virginia  said,  finally  wresting  her 
hand  from  his  clasp  and  beginning  to  walk  onward. 
"I've  said  there  is  nothing  between  him  and  me, 
and  I  shall  not  repeat  it.  If  you  want  to  raise  a 
fuss  over  it,  you  will  only  make  yourself  ridiculous." 

"Well,  I'll  look  after  that  part  of  it,"  he  cried, 
beside  himself  with  rage.  "No  mountain  razor- 
back  stripe  of  man  like  he  is  can  lord  it  over  me, 
simply  because  the  scum  of  creation  is  backing  up 
his  shallow  ideas  with  money.  /'//  open  his  eyes." 

And  Langdon  Chester,  too  angry  and  disappoint- 
ed to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  stood  still  and  allowed 
her  to  go  on  her  way.  A  boy  driving  a  drove  of 
mules  turned  the  bend  of  the  road,  and  Chester 
stepped  aside,  but  when  they  had  passed  he  stood 
still  and  watched  Virginia  as  she  slowly  pursued 
her  way. 

"Great  God,  how  am  I  to  stand  it?"  he  groaned. 
"I  want  her!  I  want  her!  I'd  work  for  her.  I'd 
slave  for  her.  I'd  do  anything  under  high  heaven 
to  be  able  to  call  her  my  own — all  my  own!  My 
God,  isn't  she  beautiful?  That  mouth,  that  proud 
poise  of  head,  that  neck  and  breast  and  form! 
Were  there  ever  such  eyes  set  in  a  human  head 
before  —  such  a  maddening  lip,  such  a  —  oh,  I 
can't  stand  it!  I  wasn't  made  for  defeat  like  this. 
Marry  her?  I'd  marry  her  if  it  impoverished  every 
member  of  my  family.  I'd  marry  her  if  the  honey- 
moon ended  in  my  death.  At  any  rate,  I  would 
have  lived  awhile.  Does  Luke  King  intend  to  marry 
her  ?  Of  course  he  does — he  has  seen  her ;  but  shall 
he  ?  No,  there  is  one  thing  certain,  and  that  is  that 

312 


Ann    Boyd 

I  could  never  live  and  know  that  she  was  receiving 
another  man's  embraces.  I'd  kill  him  if  it  damned 
me  eternally.  And  yet  I've  played  my  last  and  big- 
gest card.  She  won't  marry  me.  She  would  once, 
but  she  won't  now.  Yes,  I'm  facing  a  big,  serious 
thing,  but  I'll  face  it.  If  he  tries  to  get  her,  the 
world  will  simply  be  too  small  for  both  of  us  to 
live  in  together." 


XXXIII 

[HE  following  morning,  after  spending 
a  restless,  troublous  night  in  reflect- 
ing over  the  protestations  and  threats 
of  Langdon  Chester,  Virginia  went  fre- 
quently to  the  rear  door  of  the  house 
and  looked  out  towards  Ann  Boyd's  domicile  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  her  new  friend.  It  was  a  cool, 
bleak  day.  The  skies  were  veiled  in  thin,  low- 
hanging,  gray  clouds  which  seemed  burdened  with 
snow,  and  sharp  gusts  of  wind  bore  the  smoke  from 
the  chimney  down  to  the  earth  and  around  the 
house  in  lingering,  bluish  wisps.  Finally  her  fitful 
watch  met  its  reward,  and  she  saw  Ann  emerge 
from  her  house  and  trudge  down  towards  the  cotton- 
field  between  the  two  farms.  Hastily  looking  into 
the  kitchen,  and  seeing  that  her  mother  was  busily 
engaged  mashing  some  boiled  sweet -potatoes  into 
a  pulpy  mixture  of  sugar,  butter,  and  spices,  with 
which  to  make  some  pies,  Virginia  slipped  out  of 
the  house  and  into  the  cow-lot.  Here  she  paused 
for  a  moment,  her  glance  on  the  doorway  through 
which  she  had  passed,  and  then,  seeing  that  her 
leaving  had  not  attracted  her  mother's  attention, 
she  climbed  over  the  rail -fence  and  entered  the 
dense  thicket  near  by.  Through  this  tangle  of 
vines,  bushes,  and  briers  she  slowly  made  her  way, 


Ann   Boyd 

until,  suddenly,  the  long,  regular  rows  of  Ann's 
dead  cotton  -  stalks,  with  their  empty  boles  and 
withered  leaves,  stretched  out  before  her.  And 
there  stood  Ann,  crumbling  a  sample  of  the  gray 
soil  in  her  big,  red  hand.  She  heard  Virginia's  ap- 
proach over  the  dry  twigs  of  the  wood,  and  looked 
up. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  know 
but  what  it  was  another  catamount  that  had  got 
out  of  its  beat  up  in  the  mountains  and  strayed 
down  into  civilization." 

"I  happened  to  see  you  leave  your  house  and 
come  this  way,"  Virginia  said,  somewhat  embar- 
rassed, "and  so  I — " 

"Yes,  I  came  down  here  to  take  one  more  look 
at  this  field  and  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  have 
it  turned  under  for  wheat  or  try  its  strength  on 
cotton  again.  There  was  a  lots  of  fertilizer  put  on 
this  crop,  child.  I  can  always  tell  by  the  feel  of 
the  dirt.  That's  the  ruination  of  farming  interests 
in  the  South.  It's  the  get-a-crop-quick  plan  that 
has  no  solid  foundation.  An  industrious  German 
or  Irishman  can  make  more  off  of  an  acre  than  we 
can  off  of  ten,  and  be  adding  value  to  the  property 
each  year.  But  did  you  want  to  see  me  about — - 
anything  particular?" 

"It  seems  like  I'm  born  to  have  trouble,"  Vir- 
ginia answered,  with  heightening  color  and  a  studi- 
ous avoidance  of  the  old  woman's  keen  glance. 

"I  see;  I  reckon  your  mother — " 

"No,  it's  not  about  her,"  Virginia  interrupted. 
"  In  fact,  it's  something  that  I  could  not  confide  in 
her." 


Ann    Boyd 

"Well,  you  go  ahead  and  tell  me  about  it,"  Ann 
said,  consolingly,  as  she  threw  the  sample  of  soil 
down  and  wiped  her  hand  on  her  apron.  "  I  think 
it's  powerful  odd  the  way  things  have  turned 
around,  anyway.  Only  a  few  days  ago  if  anybody 
had  told  me  I'd  ever  be  half-way  friendly  with  a 
daughter  of  Jane  Hemingway,  I'd  have  thought 
they  was  clean  off  their  base.  I'm  trying  to  act 
the  impartial  friend  to  you,  child,  but  I  don't  know 
that  I  can.  The  trouble  is,  my  flesh  is  too  weak. 
It's  only  fair  to  tell  you  that  I  come  in  the  breadth 
of  a  hair  the  other  day  of  betraying  you  outright 
to  your  mammy.  She  met  me  down  the  road  and 
driv  me  too  far.  She  caught  me  off  my  guard  and 
came  at  me  in  her  old,  catlike  way,  spitting  and 
snarling — a  thing  I'm  not  proof  against.  She  was 
gloating  over  me.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it  to  a  sweet, 
trusting  face  like  yours,  but  she  came  charging  on 
me  at  such  a  rate  that  she  drove  away  my  best  in- 
tentions and  made  me  plumb  forget  what  I  was 
trying  to  do  for  you." 

Ann  hung  her  head  for  a  moment,  almost  sheep- 
ishly kicking  a  cotton-stalk  from  its  mellow  hill 
with  the  toe  of  her  shoe. 

"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  Virginia  said,  sweetly. 
"  I  know  how  she  can  exasperate  any  one." 

"Well,  I'm  satisfied  I  won't  do  to  trust  in  the 
capacity  of  a  friend,  anyway,"  Ann  said,  frankly. 
"I  reckon  I  would  be  safe  with  anybody  but  that 
woman.  There  is  no  use  telling  you  what  I  said, 
but  I  come  in  an  inch  of  giving  you  plumb  away. 
I  come  that  nigh  injuring  a  pure,  helpless  little 
thing  like  you  are  to  hit  her  one  sousing  lick.  As 

316 


Ann    Boyd 

it  was,  I  think  I  cowed  her  considerable.  She's 
superstitious,  and  she  broods  as  much  over  an 
imaginary  trouble  as  a  real  one.  The  Lord  knows 
I've  been  busy  enough  in  my  life  tackling  the 
genuine  thing." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  Virginia  said,  "that  ever 
since  Langdon  Chester  got  back  from  Atlanta  he 
has  been  trying  to  meet  me,  and — " 

"The  dirty  scamp!"  Ann  broke  in,  angrily.  "I 
told  him  if  he  ever  dared  to — " 

"Wait  a  minute,  Mrs.  Boyd!"  Virginia  put  out 
her  hand  and  touched  the  old  woman's  arm.  "He 
seems  awfully  upset  over  what  has  happened.  I 
never  saw  any  one  change  so  completely.  He  look- 
ed very  thin,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  and  he  shook 
all  over  like  a  man  who  has  been  on  a  long  spree. 
Mrs.  Boyd,  he  came — and  I'm  sure  he  was  serious — 
to  ask  me  to  marry  him." 

"  Marry  him  ?  Why,  child,  you  don't  mean  that — 
surely  you  don't  mean — " 

"I  only  know  what  he  said,"  Virginia  declared. 
"He  says  he  is  absolutely  miserable  over  it  all  and 
wants  me  to  marry  him.  His  cousin,  Chester  Sively, 
advised  him  to  propose  to  me,  and  he  did.  He  says 
he  loves  me,  and  that  nothing  else  will  satisfy  him." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  Ann  exclaimed,  as  her  great, 
astonished  eyes  bore  down  on  Virginia's  face.  "I 
thought  he  was  a  chip  off  of  the  old  block,  but  maybe 
he's  got  a  little  streak  of  good  in  him,  and  yet,  let 
me  study  a  minute.  Let's  walk  on  down  to  the 
spring.  I  want  to  see  if  it  doesn't  need  a  new  gum — 
the  old  one  is  about  rotted  out.  Well,  well,  well!" 

They  strolled  along  the  fence,  side  by  side,  neither 


Ann    Boyd 

speaking  till  the  spring  was  reached.  There  was  a 
rustic  bench  near  by,  and  Ann  sat  down  on  it,  put- 
ting out  her  hand  and  drawing  the  girl  to  a  seat  at 
her  side. 

"Yes,  there  may  be  a  streak  of  good,"  she  went 
on.  "And  yet  that  may  be  just  another  phase  of 
bad.  You  must  be  very  careful,  child.  You  have 
no  idea  how  beautiful  you  are.  He  may  mean  what 
he  says,  all  right  enough,  but  maybe  he  isn't  being 
led  by  the  best  motive.  I  know  men,  I  reckon,  about 
as  well  as  any  other  woman  of  my  age.  Now,  you 
see,  it  may  be  like  this:  Langdon  Chester  brought 
to  his  aid  all  the  foul  means  he  could  command  to 
carry  his  point  and  failed.  Maybe,  now,  he's  just 
reckless  enough  and  his  pride  is  cut  deep  enough  to 
make  him  resort  to  fair  means  rather  than  be  plumb 
beat  to  a  finish.  If  that's  so,  marrying  him  would 
be  a  very  risky  thing,  for  as  soon  as  his  evil  fires 
smouldered  he'd  leave  you  high  and  dry.  He'd  con- 
vince himself  he'd  married  below  his  standard,  and 
go  to  the  dogs — or  some  other  woman.  Sometimes 
I  think  there  isn't  no  real  love,  like  we  read  about 
in  story-books.  I  bdleve  a  man  or  a  woman  will 
love  their  own  offspring  in  a  solid,  self-sacrificing 
way,  but  the  sort  of  love  that  makes  a  continuous 
happy  dream  of  marriage  is  powerful  rare.  It's 
generally  one-sided  and  like  a  damp  fire  that  takes 
a  lot  of  fanning  and  fresh  kindling-wood  to  keep 
going.  But  what  did  you  tell  him,  I  wonder?" 

"Why,  I  refused  him,"  Virginia  answered. 

"You  did ?  You  don't  tell  me !  And  how  did  his 
high  and  mighty  lordship  take  that,  I  wonder?" 

"It  made  him  awfully  mad.  He  almost  swore  at 
318 


Ann    Boyd 

me,  and  took  hold  of  my  hand  roughly.  Then,  from 
something  I  happened  to  say,  he  imagined  that  I 
was  in  love  with — with  some  one  else,  and  he  made 
awful  threats  of  what  he  might  do." 

"Ah,  I  see,  I  see,  I  see!"  Ann  muttered,  as  if  to 
herself,  her  slow,  thoughtful  glance  on  her  broad 
lands,  which  stretched  out  through  the  murky  atmos- 
phere. "It's  wonderful  how  much  your  life  is  like 
mine  used  to  be.  The  other  night,  lying  in  bed,  I 
got  to  studying  over  it  all,  and  it  suddenly  flashed 
on  me  that  maybe  it  is  the  divine  intention  that  I 
was  to  travel  that  rough  road  so  I'd  know  how  to 
lead  you,  that  was  to  come  on  later,  over  the  pits 
I  stumbled  in.  And  with  that  thought  I  felt  a 
strange  sort  of  peaceful  contentment  come  over  me. 
You  see,  I'm  nearly  always  in  a  struggle  against 
my  inclination  to  treat  Jane  Hemingway's  daughter 
half  decent,  and  such  thoughts  as  those  kind  o'  ease 
my  pride.  If  the  Lord  is  making  me  pity  you  and 
like  you,  maybe  it's  the  devil  that  is  trying  to  pull 
me  the  other  way.  That's  why  I'm  afraid  I  won't 
do  to  trust,  wavering  about  like  I  am.  In  this  fight 
I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  Which  influence  is  go- 
ing to  win  in  the  end.  In  a  tight  pinch  I  may  be 
tempted  to  use  our  very  friendship  to  get  even  with 
your  mammy.  When  she  faces  me  with  that  confi- 
dent look  in  her  eye  and  that  hateful  curl  to  her  lip, 
I  loose  my  grip  on  all  that's  worth  a  red  cent  in  me." 

"You  couldn't  do  a  wrong  thing  to  save  your 
life,"  said  Virginia,  putting  out  her  hand  and  taking 
that  of  her  companion. 

"Don't  you  bet  too  high  stakes  on  that,"  Ann 
replied,  deeply  touched.  "I'm  no  saint.  Right 

319 


Ann    Boyd 

now  I'm  at  daggers'  points  with  nearly  every  neigh- 
bor I've  got,  and  even  my  own  child  over  the  moun- 
tain. How  I  ever  got  this  way  with  you  is  a  mystery 
to  me.  You  certainly  were  the  last  one  I'd  'a'  lifted 
a  finger  to  help,  but  now — well,  well — I  reckon  I'd 
worry  a  lots  if  you  met  with  any  further  misfortune. 
But  you  are  keeping  back  something,  child.  Did 
Langdon  Chester  seem  to  think  that  other  'some- 
body' could  possibly  be  Luke  King?" 

Virginia  flushed  and  nodded.  "He  seemed  to 
think  so,  Mrs.  Boyd." 

Ann  sighed.  She  was  still  holding  Virginia's  hand, 
and  she  now  began  timidly  to  caress  it  as  it  lay  on 
her  knee. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  it's  turned  out  a  bit,"  she 
said.  "The  Chester  stock  can't  stand  being  balked 
in  anything;  they  couldn't  bear  to  be  beat  in  love 
by  a  poor,  self-made  man  like  Luke,  and  great,  big 
trouble  may  be  brewing.  Langdon  might  push  a 
row  on  him.  Luke  is  writing  all  sorts  of  things 
against  the  evil  of  war  and  fighting  and  the  like,  but 
under  pressure  he'd  resent  an  insult.  I'd  hate  to 
see  him  plumb  mad.  Then,  again,  Langdon  might 
sink  low  enough  to  actually  throw  that  imprudence 
of  yours  at  him.  If  he  did,  that  would  be  a  match 
to  powder.  If  Luke  was  a  preacher  and  stood  in 
the  pulpit  calling  up  mourners,  he'd  step  down  and 
act  on  that  sort  of  an  invitation.  Virginia,  if  ever 
a  man  loved  a  woman,  he  loves  you.  His  love  is  one 
of  the  exceptions  to  the  rule  I  was  talking  about  just 
now,  and  it  seems  to  me  that,  no  matter  how  you 
treat  a  man  like  that  other  scamp,  you  won't  have 
a  right  to  refuse  Luke  King.  The  truth  is,  I  'm  afraid 

320 


Ann   Boyd 

he  never  could  stand  it.  He's  set  his  great,  big,  gentle 
soul  on  having  you  for  his  helpmeet,  and  I  don't 
believe  you  will  let  any  silly  notion  ruin  it  all. 
He's  got  brain  enough  to  tackle  the  biggest  human 
problems  and  settle  them,  but  he'll  never  give  his 
heart  out  but  once." 

Virginia  withdrew  her  hand  and  swept  it  across 
her  face,  as  if  to  brush  away  the  flush  upon  it. 

"I  can  never  be  his  wife,"  she  faltered.  She 
paused,  turned  her  face  away,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone : 
"  I  am  not  good  enough.  I  deliberately  flirted  with 
Langdon  Chester.  I  used  to  love  to  have  him  say 
sweet  things  to  me,  and  I  led  him  on.  I've  no  ex- 
cuse to  make.  If  I  had  been  good  enough  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  man  like  Luke  King,  I'd  never  have  been 
caught  in  that  trap,  even  to  save  my  mother,  for  if 
I'd  acted  differently  he'd  never  have  done  what  he 
did.  It's  all  my  fault.  If  Langdon  Chester  is  upset 
and  bent  on  trouble,  I'm  the  cause  of  it.  If  it  re- 
sults in  unhappiness  to  the  —  to  the  noblest  and 
best  man  I  ever  knew,  it  will  all  be  my  fault.  You 
needn't  try  to  comfort  me,  Mrs.  Boyd.  I  tell  you  I'd 
rather  die  than  have  Luke  King  know  all  that  has 
happened,  and  God  knows  I'd  never  be  his  wife 
otherwise.  So  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

Ann  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  then  she  said : 
"  I  feel  like  you  are  wrong  somehow,  and  yet  I  don't 
exactly  know  how  to  make  you  see  it  my  way.  We 
must  both  study  over  it.  It's  a  problem,  and  no 
little  one.  There  is  one  thing  certain:  I'll  never 
advise  you  to  start  married  life  on  deception  of  any 
kind.  I  tried  that,  with  the  best  intentions,  and 
it  was  the  worst  investment  I  ever  made." 

321 


xxxrv 

(URING  this  conversation  Sam  Hem- 
ingway had  returned  to  the  house 
from  his  field.  He  had  an  armful  of 
white,  silky,  inside  leaves  of  cornhusks 
closely  packed  together,  and  these  he 
submerged  in  a  washtub  full  of  water,  in  the  back- 
yard, placing  stones  on  them  to  hold  them  down. 

"What  are  you  about  now?"  his  sister-in-law 
asked,  as  she  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
kitchen. 

"Now,  what  could  a  body  be  about  when  he's 
wetting  a  passle  of.  shucks?"  he  answered,  dryly. 
"I'm  going  to  make  me  some  stout  horse-collars 
for  spring  ploughing.  There  ain't  but  one  other 
thing  a  body  could  make  out  of  wet  shucks,  and 
that's  foot-mats  for  town  folks  to  wipe  their  feet 
on.  Foot-mats  are  a  dead  waste  of  money,  for  if 
fewer  mats  was  used,  women  would  have  to  do  more 
sweeping  and  not  get  time  to  stand  around  the  post- 
office  watching  men  as  much  as  they  do.  I  reckon 
it's  the  way  old  daddy  Time  has  of  shifting  women's 
work  onto  men's  shoulders.  I'll  bet  my  hat  that 
new-fangled  churn  that  fellow  passed  with  yester- 
day was  invented  by  a  man  out  o'  pure  pity  for 
his  sex." 

"I  was  wondering  where  Virginia  went  to,"  Jane 
322 


Ann    Boyd 

said,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  his  philosophical  utter- 
ances. "I've  been  all  round  the  house  looking  for 
her,  even  to  the  barn,  but  she's  disappeared  entirely." 

Sam  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly.  He 
placed  the  last  stone  on  the  submerged  husks  and 
drew  himself  up  erect.  "I  was  just  studying,"  he 
drawled  out,  "whether  it  ud  actually  do  to  tell  you 
where  she  is  at  this  minute.  I'd  decided  I'd  better 
not,  and  go  on  and  finish  this  work.  From  what  I 
know  about  your  odd  disposition,  I'd  expect  one  of 
two  solitary  things:  I'd  expect  to  see  you  keel  over 
in  a  dead  faint  or  stand  stock-still  in  your  tracks 
and  burn  to  a  cinder  from  internal  fires." 

"Sam,  what  do  you  mean?"  The  widow,  in  no 
little  alarm,  came  towards  him,  her  eyes  fixed 
steadily  on  his. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  might  as  well  know  and  be 
done  with  it,"  he  said,  "though  you'll  be  sure  to  let 
them  pies  burn  afterwards.  Jane,  your  only  child 
is  right  now  a-sitting  on  the  bench  at  the  gum  spring, 
side  by  side  with  Ann  Boyd.  In  fact,  as  well  as  I 
could  see  from  the  rise  I  was  on  in  my  potato-patch, 
I'd  'a'  took  my  oath  that  they  was  holding  hands 
like  two  sweethearts." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  Jane  gasped,  turn- 
ing pale.  "  It  might  have  been  Virginia  with  some- 
body else,  but  not  that  woman." 

"I  wouldn't  mistake  Ann  Boyd's  solid  shape  and 
blue  linsey  frock  ten  miles  off,"  was  the  cold  com- 
fort Sam  dispensed  in  his  next  remark.  "If  you 
doubt  what  I  say,  and  will  agree  not  to  jump  on 
Ann  and  get  yourself  drawed  up  at  court  for  assault 
and  battery,  with  intent  to  get  killed,  you  may  go 

323 


Ann    Boyd 

look  for  yourself.  If  you'll  slip  through  the  thicket, 
you  can  come  up  on  'em  unbeknownst." 

With  a  very  grave  look  on  her  emaciated  face, 
Jane  Hemingway,  without  wrap  for  her  thin  shoul- 
ders or  covering  for  her  gray  head,  strode  across 
the  yard  and  into  the  bushes.  Almost  holding  her 
breath  in  dire  suspense  and  with  a  superstitious 
fear  of  she  knew  not  what,  she  sped  through  the 
wood,  briers  and  thorn -bushes  clutching  at  her 
skirt  and  wild  grape-vines  striking  her  abreast  and 
detaining  her.  Presently  she  was  near  enough  to 
the  spring  to  hear  voices,  but  was,  as  yet,  unable  to 
see  who  was  speaking.  Then  she  became  fearful 
lest  the  dry  twigs  with  which  the  ground  was  strewn, 
in  breaking  under  her  feet,  would  betray  her  pres- 
ence, and  she  began,  with  the  desperate  caution  of 
a  convict  escaping  from  prison,  to  select  her  way, 
carefully  stepping  from  one  patch  of  green  moss  to 
another.  A  few  paces  ahead  of  her  there  was  a 
group  of  tall  pines,  and  the  earth  beneath  their 
skeleton  boughs  was  a  veritable  bed  of  soft,  brown 
needles.  She  soon  gained  this  favorable  point  of 
progress,  and  sped  onward  as  noiselessly  as  the  gen- 
tle breeze  overhead.  Suddenly,  through  the  bush- 
es, she  caught  a  gleam  of  color,  and  recognized  the 
dark-blue  skirt  Ann  Boyd  wore  so  constantly,  and 
—her  heart  stood  still,  for,  massed  against  it,  was 
the  light  gray  of  Virginia's  dress.  Ah,  there  could 
be  no  shadow  of  a  doubt  now.  Sam  was  right,  and 
with  bowed  head  and  crouching  form  Jane  gave  be- 
wildered ear  to  words  which  caused  her  blood  to 
stand  still  in  her  veins. 

"Yes,  I've  thought  a  lots  about  it,  child,"  she 
324 


Ann   Boyd 

heard  Ann  saying.  "I  can't  make  it  out  at  all, 
but  I  really  love  you  more  than  I  do  my  own 
daughter.  I  reckon  it  was  the  divine  intention  for 
me  and  you  to  have  this  secret  between  us,  and  pity 
one  another  like  we  do.  I  can't  help  it,  but  when 
you  tell  me  you  love  me  and  think  I'm  good  and 
the  best  friend  you've  got  on  earth,  why,  it  is  the 
sweetest  sound  that  ever  fell  on  human  ear." 

There  was  a  pause.  Jane  Hemingway  held  her 
breath;  her  very  soul  hung  on  the  silence.  Then, 
as  if  from  the  dun  skies  above  the  shaft  descended, 
as  if  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  Avenging  Angel. 
It  was  the  child  of  her  own  breast  uttering  sounds 
as  inexplicable,  as  damning  to  her  hopes,  as  if  the 
gentle,  tractable  girl  had  approached  her  bed  in  the 
dead  hours  of  night  and  said:  "Mother,  I've  come  to 
kill  you.  There  is  no  way  out  of  it.  I  must  take 
your  life.  I  am  stronger  than  you.  You  must  sub- 
mit. Ann  Boyd  has  willed  it  so.  Mother,  I  am 
Retribution!" 

"Yes,  I  do  love  you,  with  all  my  heart,"  were  the 
words  Jane  heard.  "  I  can't  help  it.  You  have  been 
kinder  to  me,  more  considerate  of  my  feelings,  than 
my  own  mother.  But  I  will  make  amends  for  all 
her  cruelty  towards  you.  I'll  love  you  always.  I'll 
go  to  my  grave  loving  you.  You  are  the  best  woman 
that  ever  lived.  Suffering  has  raised  you  to  the 
skies.  I  have  never  kissed  you.  Let  me  now — do, 
do  let  me!" 

As  if  in  a  horrible  dream,  Jane  Hemingway 
turned  back  homeward.  Without  knowing  why, 
she  still  moved  with  the  same  breathless  caution. 
Hers  was  a  dead  soul  dragging  a  body  vitalized 

325 


Ann   Boyd 

only  by  sheer  animal  instinct  to  escape  torture.  To 
escape  it?  No,  it  was  there  ahead — it  was  here, 
encompassing  her  like  a  net,  yonder,  behind,  every- 
where, and  it  would  stretch  out  to  the  end  of  time. 
She  told  her  benumbed  consciousness  that  she  saw 
it  all  now.  It  was  not  the  cancer  and  its  deadly 
effect  that  Ann  had  held  over  her  that  hot  day  at 
the  wash-place.  No  wonder  that  Ann  had  not  told 
her  all,  for  that  would  have  marred  her  comprehen- 
sive and  relentless  plans.  Ann's  subtle  plot  had 
been  to  rob  her  enemy  of  the  respect  and  love  of 
her  only  child.  Jane  had  succeeded  in  tearing  from 
Ann  Boyd's  arms  her  only  offspring,  and  Ann,  with 
the  cunning  of  her  great,  indefatigable  brain,  had 
devised  this  subtle  revenge  and  carried  it  through. 
She  had  won  over  to  herself  the  love  and  respect, 
even  reverence,  of  her  enemy's  child.  It  had  been 
going  on  in  secret  for  a  long  time,  and  even  now  the 
truth  was  out  only  by  sheer  accident.  Jane  Hem- 
ingway groaned  aloud  in  agony  and  self-pity  as, 
with  her  gray  head  down,  she  groped  homeward. 
What  was  there  to  do  now?  Nothing!  She  was 
learning  her  final  grim  lesson  in  the  realization  that 
she  was  no  possible  match  for  her  rival.  How  well 
she  now  recalled  the  fierce  words  Ann  had  hurled 
at  her  only  a  few  days  since:  "Could  I  hit  back  at 
you  now  ?  Could  I  ?  Huh !  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thing, Jane.  Hemingway,  that  would  humble  you 
to  the  dust  and  make  you  crawl  home  with  your 
nose  to  the  earth  like  a  whipped  dog."  Ah,  it 
was  true,  only  too  true!  Humbled?  It  was  more 
than  that.  Pride,  hope,  even  resentment,  was  gone. 
She  now  cowered  before  her  enemy  as  she  had  so 

326 


Ann    Boyd 

recently  before  death  itself.  For  once  she  keenly 
felt  her  own  supreme  littleness  and  stood  in  abso- 
lute awe  of  the  mighty  personality  she  had  been  so 
long  and  audaciously  combating. 

Reaching  the  fence  which  bounded  her  own  prop- 
erty, Jane  got  over  it  with  difficulty.  She  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  physical  strength.  She  saw  Sam 
behind  the  house,  under  the  spreading,  leafless 
boughs  of  an  apple-tree,  repairing  a  break  in  the 
ash-hopper.  She  could  not  have  explained  what 
impulse  prompted  it,  but  she  paused  in  front  of 
him,  speaking  in  a  tone  he  had  never  heard  from 
her  before.  "Sam,"  she  said,  a  stare  like  the  glaze 
of  death  in  her  eyes,  "don't  you  mention  this  to 
my  child ;  do  you  hear  me  ?  Don't  you  tell  Virginia 
what  we've  found  out.  If  you  do  you'll  get  your 
foot  into  something  you'll  be  sorry  for.  Do  you 
hear  me,  man  ?  This  is  my  business — mine,  and  not 
a  thing  for  you  to  treat  lightly.  If  you  know  what's 
good  for  you,  you'll  take  my  hint  and  not  meddle." 

"Well,  I  never!"  Sam  exclaimed.  "Good  Lord, 
woman,  what  have  them  two  folks  done  to  you 
down  there.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  plumb  flabber- 
gasted in  my  life." 

"Never  you  mind  about  that,"  Jane  said.  "You 
remember  what  I  said  and  don't  meddle  with  what 
doesn't  concern  you." 

"Well,  she  kin  bet  I  won't,"  Sam  mused,  as  he 
stood  looking  after  her,  as  she  disappeared  through 
the  doorway  into  the  kitchen.  "This  is  one  of  the 
times,  I  reckon,  that  I'll  take  her  advice.  Some'n' 
big  has  taken  place,  or  is  about  to  take  place,  if  I'm 
any  judge." 

327 


Ann    Boyd 

Jane  sank  into  a  chair  in  the  kitchen  and  softly 
groaned  as  she  cast  her  slow  eyes  about  her.  Here 
all  seemed  sheer  mockery.  Every  mute  object  in 
the  room  uttered  a  cry  against  her.  The  big,  open 
fireplace,  with  its  pots  and  kettles,  the  cupboard, 
the  cleanly  polished  table,  with  the  row  of  hot  pies 
Sam  had  rescued  from  the  coals  and  placed  there  to 
cool,  the  churn,  the  milk  and  butter- jars  and  pans, 
the  pepper -pods  hanging  to  the  smoked  rafters 
overhead — all  these  things,  which  had  to  do  with 
mere  subsistence,  seemed  suddenly  out  of  place 
among  the  things  which  really  counted.  Suddenly 
Jane  had  a  faint  thrill  of  hope,  as  a  thought,  like  a 
stray  gleam  of  light  penetrating  a  dark  chamber, 
came  to  her.  Perhaps,  when  Virginia  was  told  that 
Ann  Boyd  had  only  used  her  as  a  tool  in  a  gigantic 
and  subtle  scheme  of  revenge  against  her  own  flesh 
and  blood,  the  girl  would  turn  back  to  her  own. 
Perhaps,  but  it  was  not  likely.  Ann  Boyd  had 
never  failed  in  any  deliberate  undertaking.  She 
would  not  now,  and,  for  aught  Jane  knew  to  the 
contrary,  Virginia  might  be  as  confirmed  already 
in  her  enmity  as  the  older  woman,  and  had  long 
been  a  dutiful  and  observant  spy.  It  was  horrible, 
but — yes,  Jane  was  willing  to  admit  that  it  was  fair. 
The  worm  had  turned,  and  its  sting  was  equal  to 
the  concentrated  pain  of  all  Ann  Boyd's  years  of 
isolated  sufferings. 


XXXV 

\N  about  half  an  hour  Virginia  returned 
home.  She  passed  Sam  under  the 
apple-tree,  where  he  now  had  a  big 
pot  full  of  shelled  corn  and  lye  over 
an  incipient  fire  preparing  to  make 
whole-grained  hominy,  and  hastened  into  the  kitch- 
en, where  Jane  sat  bowed  before  the  fire. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  mother?"  she  in- 
quired. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Hemingway  did  not 
look  up.  In  some  surprise,  Virginia  repeated  her 
question,  and  then  Jane  said,  calmly  and  deliber- 
ately : 

"Yes;  there  is  something  you  can  do.  You  can 
get  out  of  my  sight,  and  keep  out  of  it.  When  I 
want  anything  from  you,  I'll  call  on  you." 

Virginia  paused,  dumfounded,  and  then  passed 
out  into  the  yard  and  approached  her  uncle. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  she  asked,  "if  anything  has 
gone  wrong  with  mother?" 

Sam  gave  her  one  swift  glance  from  beneath  his 
tattered,  tent-shaped  wool-hat,  and  then,  with  his 
paddle,  he  began  to  stir  the  corn  and  lye  in  the  pot. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said,  after  a  momentary  struggle 
over  a  desire  to  tell  the  plain  truth  instead  of  pre- 
varicating, "if  you  don't  know  that  woman  by  this 

"  329 


Ann   Boyd 

time,  Virgie,  it's  your  own  fault.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
try  to  keep  up  with  her  tantrums  and  sudden  notions. 
That  woman's  died  forty-seven  times  in  her  life,  and 
been  laid  out  and  buried  ten.  Maybe  she's  been 
tasting  them  pies  she  was  cooking,  and  got  crooked. 
You  let  a  body's  liver  be  at  all  sluggish  and  get  a 
wad  o'  sweet-potato  dough  lodged  inside  of  'em, 
and  they'll  have  a  sort  of  jim-jams  not  brought  on 
by  liquor.  I  reckon  she'll  cough  it  down  after 
a  while.  If  I  was  you,  though,  I'd  let  her  alone." 

Jane  was,  indeed,  acting  strangely.  Refusing  to 
sit  down  to  the  mid-day  meal  with  them,  as  was 
her  invariable  custom,  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl  and,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  set  off  in 
the  direction  of  Wilson's  store.  She  was  gone  till 
dusk,  and  then  came  in  with  a  slow  step,  passed 
through  the  sitting-room,  where  Sam  had  made  a 
cheerful  fire,  and  went  on  to  her  own  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  house.  Virginia  rose  to  follow  her  so- 
licitously, but  Sam  put  out  a  detaining  hand,  shift- 
ing his  pipe  into  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"I'd  let  her  alone  if  I  was  in  your  place,"  he  said. 
"Let  her  go  to  bed  and  sleep.  She'll  get  up  all 
right  in  the  morning." 

"I  only  wanted  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  do  for  her,"  Virginia  said,  in  a  troubled  tone. 
"Do  you  suppose  it  is  a  relapse  she  is  having? 
Perhaps  she  has  discovered  that  the  cancer  is  com- 
ing back.  The  fear  of  that  would  kill  her,  actually 
kill  her." 

"I  don't  think  that's  it,"  said  Sam,  impulsively; 
"the  truth  is,  Virginia,  she — "  He  pulled  himself  up. 
"  But  maybe  that  is  it.  Anyway,  I'd  let  her  alone." 

330 


Ann    Boyd 

Darkness  came  down.  Virginia  spread  the  cloth 
in  the  big  kitchen  and  put  the  plates  and  dishes  in 
their  places,  and  then  slipped  to  the  door  of  her 
mother's  room.  It  was  dark  and  still. 

"Supper  is  on  the  table,  mother,"  she  said;  "do 
you  want  anything?" 

There  was  a  sudden  creaking  of  the  bed-slats,  a 
pause,  then,  in  a  sullen,  husky  voice,  Jane  answered, 
"No,  I  don't;  you  leave  me  alone!" 

"All  right,  mother;  I'm  sorry  to  have  disturbed 
you.  Good-night. ' ' 

Sam  and  his  niece  ate  alone  in  the  big  room  by 
the  wavering  light  of  the  fire.  The  wind  had  risen 
on  the  mountain-top,  and  roared  across  the  fields. 
It  sang  dolefully  in  the  pines  near  by,  whistled 
shrilly  under  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  scurried 
through  the  open  passage  outside.  After  the  meal 
was  over,  Sam  smoked  a  pipe  and  thumped  off  to 
bed,  carrying  his  shoes  in  his  hand.  Virginia  buried 
the  remains  of  the  big  back-log  in  the  hot  ashes,  and 
in  the  darkness  crept  into  her  own  room,  adjoining 
that  of  her  mother,  and  went  to  bed. 

Jane  Hemingway  was  not  sleeping;  she  had  no 
hope  of  a  respite  of  that  sort.  She  would  have 
doubted  that  she  ever  could  close  her  eyes  in  tran- 
quillity till  some  settlement  of  the  life -crushing 
matter  was  reached.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Only 
one  expedient  had  offered  itself  during  her  aimless 
walk  to  the  store,  where  she  purchased  a  spool  of 
cotton  thread  she  did  not  need,  and  during  her  slow 
return  along  the  road  and  the  further  hours  of 
solitude  in  her  darkened  chamber,  and  that  expe- 
dient offered  no  balm  for  her  gashed  and  torn  pride. 


Ann    Boyd 

She  could  appeal  to  the  law  to  protect  her  innocent 
daughter  from  the  designing  wiles  of  a  woman  of 
such  a  reputation  as  Ann  Boyd  bore,  but,  alas!  even 
Ann  might  have  foreseen  that  ruse  and  counted  on 
its  more  deeply  stirring  Virginia's  sympathies  and 
adding  to  her  faith.  Why  she  had  not  at  once 
denounced  her  child  for  her  filial  faithlessness  she 
could  not  have  explained,  unless  it  was  the  super- 
stitious dread  of  having  Virginia's  infidelity  recon- 
firmed. Of  course,  she  must  fight.  Yes,  she'd  have 
to  do  that  to  the  end,  although  her  shrewd  enemy 
had  already  beaten  her  life-pulse  dead  in  her  veins 
and  left  her  without  a  hope  of  adequate  retaliation. 
Going  to  law  meant  also  that  it  was  her  first  pub- 
lic acknowledgment  of  her  enemy's  prowess,  and  it 
meant,  too,  the  wide-spread  and  humiliating  adver- 
tisement of  the  fact  that  Virginia  had  died  to  her 
and  been  born  to  the  breast  of  her  rival ;  but  even 
that  must  be  borne. 

These  morose  reflections  were  broken,  near  mid- 
night, by  a  step  in  the  passage  outside.  The  door 
was  opened  softly,  and  Virginia,  in  her  night-robe, 
came  in  quietly  and  approached  the  bed. 

"I  know  you  are  not  asleep,  mother,"  she  said, 
tremulously.  "I've  heard  you  rolling  and  tossing 
ever  since  I  went  to  bed." 

Jane  stared  from  her  hot  pillow  for  an  instant, 
and  then  slowly  propped  herself  up  on  her  gaunt, 
quivering  elbow.  "You  are  not,  asleep  either,  it 
seems,"  she  said,  hollowly. 

"No,  I  couldn't  for  thinking  about  you,"  Virginia 
replied,  gently,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

332 


"You  couldn't,  huh!  I  say!"  Jane  sneered. 
"Huh,  you!  It's  a  pity  about  you!" 

"I  have  reason  to  worry,"  Virginia  said.  "You 
know  the  doctors  told  you  particularly  not  to  get 
depressed  and  downhearted  while  you  are  recover- 
ing your  strength." 

' '  Huh !  what  do  they  mean  by  prescribing  things 
that  can't  be  reached  under  the  sun?  They  are 
idiots  to  think  I  could  have  peace  of  mind  after 
finding  out  what  I  did  this  morning.  I  once  had  a 
cancer  in  the  flesh;  I've  got  one  now  in  my  heart, 
where  no  knife  on  earth  can  reach  it. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause.  The  eyes  of  the  mother  and 
daughter  met  in  the  half  -  darkness  of  the  room. 
There  was  a  lull  in  the  whistling  of  the  wind  outside. 
Under  the  floor  a  hen  with  a  brood  of  chickens  was 
clucking  uneasily  and  flapping  her  wings  in  the  effort 
to  keep  her  brood  warm.  Across  the  passage  came 
the  rasping  sound  of  Sam's  snoring,  as  unconscious 
of  tragedy  as  he  had  been  in  his  cradle,  and  yet  its 
creeping  shadow  lay  over  his  placid  features,  its 
bated  breath  filled  the  air  he  was  breathing.  Vir- 
ginia leaned  forward  wonderingly,  her  lips  parted 
and  set  in  anxiety. 

"You  are  thinking  about  the  debt  on  the  farm?" 
she  ventured.  "If  that's  it,  mother,  remember — " 

"The  debt  on  this  paltry  shack  and  few  acres  of 
rocky  land  ?  Huh !  if  that  was  all  I  had  to  complain 
about  I'd  bounce  out  of  this  bed  and  shout  for  joy. 
Oh,  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me!" 

"Then,  mother,  what — "  Virginia  drew  herself 
up  with  a  start.  Her  mother,  it  now  struck  her, 
had  said  her  trouble  was  due  to  a  discovery  she  had 

333 


Ann   Boyd 

made  that  morning.  What  else  could  it  be  than 
that  her  mother  had  accidentally  seen  her  in  com- 
pany with  Ann  Boyd  ?  Yes,  that  was  it,  and  Vir- 
ginia hastily  told  herself  that  some  satisfying  ex- 
planation must  be  made,  some  plausible  and  pacify- 
ing reason  must  be  forthcoming  that  would  allay 
her  mother's  anger,  but  it  was  hard  to  lie,  in  open 
words,  as  she  had  been  doing  in  act.  The  gentle  girl 
shuddered  before  the  impending  ordeal  and  clinched 
her  hands  in  her  lap.  Yes,  it  was  hard  to  lie,  and 
yet  the  truth — the  whole  truth — was  impossible. 

"Mother,"  she  began,  "you  see  —  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  confess  to  you  that  Mrs.  Boyd  and  I— 

"Don't  blacken  your  soul  with  lies!"  her  mother 
hurled  at  her,  furiously.  "I  slipped  up  in  a  few 
feet  of  you  both  at  the  spring  and  saw  you  kissing 
her,  and  heard  you  tell  her  you  loved  her  more  than 
anybody  in  the  world,  and  that  she'd  treated  you 
better  than  I  ever  did,  and  that  she  was  the  best 
woman  that  ever  lived.  Explain  all  that,  if  you 
can,  but  don't  set  there  and  lie  to  me  who  gave  you 
what  life  you've  got,  and  toiled  and  stinted  and 
worked  my  hands  to  the  bone  to  raise  you  and  let 
you  hold  your  own  with  others.  If  there's  a  speck 
of  truth  in  you,  don't  deny  what  I  saw  with  my  own 
eyes  and  heard  with  my  two  ears." 

"I'll  not  deny  it,  then,"  Virginia  said.  She  rose 
and  moved  to  the  small-paned  window  and  stood 
with  her  face  turned  away.  "  I  have  met  Mrs.  Boyd 
several  times  and  talked  to  her.  I  don't  think  she 
has  ever  had  justice  done  her  by  you  and  her  neigh- 
bors ;  she  is  not  rightly  understood,  and,  feeling  that 
you  have  been  all  along  the  chief  influence  against 

334 


Ann    Boyd 

her,  and  have  always  kept  her  early  trouble  stirred 
up,  I  felt  like  being  her  friend  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  at  the  same  time  remain  true  to  you." 

"Oh,  you  poor,  poor  little  sniffling  idiot!"  Jane 
said,  as  she  drew  her  thin  legs  out  from  the  coverings 
and  rested  her  feet  on  the  floor  and  leaned  forward. 
"All  this  time  you've  been  thinking,  in  your  grand 
way,  that  you  were  doing  a  kindness  to  her,  when 
she  was  just  using  you  as  a  tool,  to  devil  me.  Huh! 
didn't  she  throw  it  up  to  me  once  at  the  wash-place 
where  she  and  I  met  ?  She  told  me  to  my  teeth  that 
something  was  coming  that  would  bring  my  face  to 
the  earth  in  shame.  I  thought  she  knew  about  the 
cancer,  and  was  gloating  over  it;  but  she  wasn't 
speaking  of  that,  for  when  I  came  back  from  Atlanta, 
sound  and  whole,  she  hurled  her  hints  at  me  again. 
She  said  she  knew  nothing  about  the  cancer  at  that 
time,  but  that  she  still  knew  something  that  would 
make  me  slink  from  the  faces  of  men  and  women 
like  a  whipped  hound.  I  discovered  what  she  meant 
to-day.  She  meant  that  because  my  testimony  had 
something  to  do  with  Joe  Boyd's  leaving  with  her 
child,  she  had  won  over  mine  to  herself.  That's  been 
her  mean  and  sneaking  plot  all  this  time,  in  which 
she  has  been  decoying  you  from  a  respectable  roof 
and  making  you  her  easy  tool — the  tool  with  which 
she  expected  to  stab  at  my  pride  and  humble  me 
in  the  eyes  of  everybody." 

"Mother,  stop!"  Virginia  turned  and  sat  down 
again  on  the  bed.  "That  woman  shall  not  have  an- 
other— not  one  other — -false  charge  piled  up  around 
her.  God  knows  I  don't  see  how  I  can  tell  you  all 
the  truth,  but  it  is  due  to  her  now.  It  will  more 

335 


Ann    Boyd 

than  justify  her,  and  that's  my  duty.  Listen,  and 
don't  interrupt  me.  I  want  to  go  straight  through 
this,  and  when  I  have  finished  you  may  turn  from 
me  and  force  me  to  go  to  her  for  a  home.  You 
have  never  dreamed  that  I  could  do  what  I  am  about 
to  confess  I  did.  I  am  not  going  to  excuse  myself, 
either.  What  I  did,  I  did.  The  shame  of  it,  now 
that  I  see  clearly,  is  killing  me.  No,  stop!  Let 
me  go  on.  I  have  been  receiving  the  attentions  of 
Langdon  Chester  in  secret.  After  the  first  time 
you  saw  us  together  and  objected  so  strongly,  I 
told  him  not  to  come  to  the  house  again ;  but,  like 
many  another  silly  girl,  I  was  hungry  for  admiration, 
and  met  him  elsewhere.  I  loved  to  hear  the  nice 
things  he  said,  although  I  didn't  always  believe 
them.  He — he  tried  to  induce  me  to  do  a  number 
of  imprudent  things,  which,  somehow,  I  was  able 
to  refuse,  as  they  concerned  my  own  pleasure  alone ; 
but  then  you  began  to  worry  about  the  money  to 
go  to  Atlanta  on.  Day  by  day  you  grew  more 
and  more  despondent  and  desperate  as  every  effort 
failed,  and  one  day,  when  you  were  down  at  the 
lowest  ebb  of  hope,  he  told  me  that  he — do  you 
understand,  mother? — Langdon  Chester  told  me 
that  he  thought  he  could  get  up  the  money,  but 
that  no  one  must  know  that  he — " 

"Oh,  my  God,  don't,  don't,  don't!"  Jane  groaned. 
"Don't  tell  me  that  you—" 

"Stop!  let  me  go  on,"  Virginia  said,  in  a  low, 
desperate  tone.  "I'm  going  to  tell  the  whole  hor- 
rible thing  and  be  done  with  it  forever.  He  said 
he  had  sent  his  best  horse  to  Darley  to  sell  it,  and 
that  the  man  would  be  back  about  ten  o'clock  at 

336. 


Ann    Boyd 

night  with  the  money.  He  told  me,  mother,  that 
he  wanted  me  to  slip  away  from  home  after  you 
went  to  sleep  and  come  there  for  the  money.  I 
didn't  hesitate  long.  I  wanted  to  save  your  life. 
I  agreed.  I  might  have  failed  to  go  after  I  parted 
with  him  if  I'd  had  time  to  reflect,  but  when  I  came 
in  to  supper  you  were  more  desperate  than  ever. 
You  went  to  your  room  praying  and  moaning,  and 
kept  it  up  till  you  dropped  asleep  only  a  few  min- 
utes before  the  appointed  time.  Well,  I  slipped 
away  and — went." 

"Oh,  God  have  mercy  on  me — mercy,  mercy, 
mercy!"  Jane  groaned.  "You  went  there  to  that 
man!" 

Virginia  nodded  mutely  and  then  continued  her 
recital.  Jane  Hemingway's  knees  bent  under  her 
as  she  stood  holding  to  the  bedpost,  and  she  slowly 
sank  to  the  floor  a  few  feet  away.  With  a  low, 
moaning  sound  like  a  suffering  dumb  brute,  she 
crawled  on  her  hands  and  knees  to  her  daughter 
and  mutely  clutched  the  girl's  cold,  bare  ankles. 
"You  say  he  locked  you  in  his  bedroom!"  she  said, 
in  a  rasping  whisper.  "  Locked  you — actually  locked 
you  in!  Oh,  Lord  have  mercy!" 

"Then,  after  a  long  wait,"  the  girl  went  on,  "in 
which  I  was  praying  only  for  the  money,  mother — 
the  money  to  save  your  life  and  put  you  out  of 
agony — I  heard  steps,  first  on  the  stairs  and  then 
at  the  door.  Somebody  touched  the  latch.  The 
door  held  fast.  Then  the  key  was  turned,  and  as 
I  sat  there  with  covered  face,  now  with  the  dread 
of  death  upon  me  for  the  first  time,  somebody  came 
in  and  stood  over  me." 

337 


Ann   Boyd 

"  The  scoundrel !  The  beast !"  Jane's  hands  slip- 
ped from  their  hold  on  the  girl's  ankles  and  fell;  her 
head  and  shoulders  sank  till  her  brow  touched  the 
floor. 

"A  hand  was  laid  on  my  head,"  Virginia  went  on. 
"  I  heard  a  voice — " 

"The  fiend  from  hell!"  Jane  raised  her  haggard 
face  and  glaring  eyes.  "Don't,  don't  tell  me  that 
he  dared  to — " 

"It  was  Mrs.  Boyd,  mother — Ann  Boyd,"  said 
Virginia. 

"Ann  Boyd!"  Jane  groaned.  "I  see  it  now;  she 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it;  it  was  all  her  doing.  That 
was  her  plot.  Ah,  God,  I  see  it  now!" 

"You  are  mistaken,"  the  girl  said.  "She  had 
accidentally  overheard  my  agreement  to  go  there, 
and  came  for  no  other  reason  than  to  save  me, 
mother — to  save  me." 

"To  save  you?"  Jane  raised  herself  on  her  two 
hands  like  a  four-footed  animal  looking  up  from 
its  food.  "Save  you?"  she  repeated,  with  the  help- 
less glare  of  insanity  in  her  blearing  eyes. 

"Yes,  to  save  me.  She  was  acting  on  impulse, 
an  impulse  for  good  that  she  was  even  then  fighting 
against.  When  she  heard  of  that  appointment  she 
actually  gloated  over  it,  but,  mother,  she  found  her- 
self unequal  to  it.  As  the  time  which  had  been  set 
drew  near,  she  plunged  out  into  the  night  and  got 
there  only  a  few  minutes  before — " 

"In  time — oh,  my  God,  did  you  say  in  time?" 
Jane  gasped,  again  clutching  her  daughter's  ankles 
and  holding  desperately  to  them. 

"  Yes,  in  time  to  save  me  from  all  but  the  life-long 
338 


Ann    Boyd 

consciousness  of  my  awful  indiscretion.  She  brought 
me  away,  and  after  that  how  could  I  be  other  than 
a  grateful  friend  to  such  a  noble  creature?" 

"  In  time — oh,  my  God,  in  time!"  Jane  exclaimed, 
as  she  sat  erect  on  the  floor  and  tossed  her  scant 
hair,  which,  like  a  wisp  of  tow,  hung  down  her  cheek. 
Then  she  got  up  stiffly  and  moved  back  to  the  bed 
as  aimlessly  as  if  she  were  wandering  in  her  sleep. 

"There  is  no  use  in  my  saying  more,  mother." 
Virginia  rose  and  turned  to  the  door.  "I'm  going 
back  to  my  room.  You  can  think  it  all  over  and 
do  as  you  please  with  me.  I  deserve  punishment, 
and  I'm  willing  to  take  it." 

Jane  stared  at  her  from  her  hollow  eyes  for  a 
moment,  then  she  said:  "Yes,  go!  I  never  want  to 
see  you  again ;  Ann  Boyd  saved  you,  but  she  is  now 
gloating  over  me.  She'll  call  it  heaping  coals  of 
fire  on  my  head;  she'll  brag  to  me  and  others  of 
what  she's  done,  and  of  what  I  owe  her.  Oh,  I 
know  that  woman!  You've  escaped  one  thing,  but 
have  made  me  face  another  worse  than  death.  Go 
on  away — get  clear  out  of  my  sight.  If  you  don't 
I'll  say  something  to  you  that  you  will  remember 
all  your  life." 

"Very  well,  mother."  Virginia  moved  to  the 
door.  Her  hand  was  on  the  latch,  when,  with  a 
startled  gasp,  her  mother  called  out: 

"Stop! — stop!  For  God's  sake  don't  you  dare  to 
tell  me  that  I  went  to  Atlanta  and  bought  back  my 
life  with  that  young  scoundrel's  money;  if  you  do, 
as  God  is  my  Judge,  I'll  strike  you  dead  where  you 
stand." 

"No,  I  refused  to  take  it,"  Virginia  said.  "He 
339 


Ann   Boyd 

came  to  me  afterwards  and  begged  me  to  accept 
it,  but  I  refused." 

"Then  how  under  the  sun — "  Jane  began,  but 
went  no  further. 

Virginia  turned  in  the  doorway  and  stood  still; 
a  look  of  resigned  despair  was  on  her.  "You  may 
as  well  know  all  the  truth,"  she  said.  "  I  promised 
not  to  tell,  but  you  really  ought  to  know  this,  too. 
Mother,  Ann  Boyd,  gave  me  the  money.  The  wom- 
an you  are  still  hounding  and  hating  earned  the 
money  by  the  sweat  of  her  brow  that  saved  your 
life." 

"Ann  Boyd!  Oh,  my  God,  and  to  think  you  can 
stand  there  and  tell  me  that!  Get  out  of  my  sight. 
You  have  acted  the  fool  all  along,  and  humiliated  me 
in  the  dust  by  your  conduct.  You  are  no  child  of 
mine.  It  was  all  a  plot — a  dirty,  low  plot.  She  has 
used  you.  She  has  used  me.  She  is  laughing  at  us 
both  right  now.  Oh,  I  know  her!  Get  out  of  my 
sight  or  I'll  forget  myself  and — go,  I  tell  you!" 


XXXVI 

next  morning  Jane  did  not  come 
out  to  breakfast.  Virginia  had  it  ready 
on  the  table  and  went  to  her  mother's 
room  to  call  her.  There  was  no  re- 
sponse. Opening  the  door,  she  saw 
Jane,  fully  dressed,  standing  at  the  window  looking 
out,  but  she  refused  to  speak  when  gently  informed 
that  breakfast  was  ready.  Then  Virginia  went  back 
to  the  kitchen,  and,  arranging  some  delicacies,  a  cup 
of  coffee,  and  other  things  on  a  tray,  she  took  it  in 
and  left  it  on  her  mother's  table  and  retired,  closing 
the  door  after  her. 

For  a  week  Jane  refused  to  leave  her  room  or 
speak  to  her  daughter.  Three  times  a  day  Virginia 
took  her  mother's  food  to  her,  always  finding  the 
window-shade  drawn  and  the  chamber  dark. 

One  morning,  about  this  time,  Virginia  happened 
to  see  Ann  in  her  peanut-patch,  a  rich  spot  of  ground 
below  the  old  woman's  barn-yard,  and,  seeing  that 
she  would  be  quite  unobserved,  she  put  on  her  bon- 
net and  shawl  and  joined  Ann,  who,  with  a  long, 
narrow  hoe,  was  carefully  digging  the  peanuts  from 
the  hills,  and  pulling  them  out  by  the  brown,  frost- 
bitten vines,  and  shaking  the  earth  from  their  roots 
and  leaving  them  to  dry  and  season  in  the  open  air. 
"I  never  saw  goobers  to  beat  these,"  Ann  said, 


Ann   Boyd 

proudly,  as  she  held  up  a  weighty  bunch.  "  I  reckon 
this  patch  will  turn  out  a  good  hundred  bushel.  I 
hit  it  just  right ;  they  tell  me  in  town  that  they  are 
bringing  a  fine  price.  I've  been  wondering  what 
was  the  matter  with  you,  child.  You've  been  keep- 
ing powerful  close  in-doors." 

Then,  as  Ann  leaned  on  her  smooth  hoe-handle, 
Virginia  told  her  frankly  all  that  had  taken  place, 
leaving  out  nothing,  and  ending  with  her  mother's 
self -incarceration  and  sullen  mood. 

"Well,"  Ann  exclaimed,  her  brow  ruffled  with 
pained  perplexity,  "I  hardly  know  what  to  say  in 
the  matter.  I  don't  blame  you  for  letting  out  the 
whole  business  after  you  once  got  started.  That 
was  just  natural.  But  don't  worry  about  her. 
She'll  pull  through;  she's  tough  as  whitleather;  her 
trouble's  not  of  the  body,  but  the  mind.  I  know; 
I've  been  through  enough  of  it.  Mark  my  prophecy, 
she'll  come  out  one  of  these  days  feeling  better. 
She'll  crawl  out  of  her  darkness  like  a  butterfly  from 
its  dead  and  useless  husk.  She'll  see  clearer  out  in 
the  open  light  when  once  she  strikes  it.  Look  here, 
child.  I  don't  want  to  look  like  a  sniffling  fool  after 
all  the  hard  rubs  I've  had  in  this  life  to  toughen  me, 
but  I'm  a  changed  woman.  Reading  Luke's  won- 
derful articles  every  week,  and  remembering  the 
things  the  boy  has  said  to  me  off  and  on,  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  I  reckon,  and  then  this  expe- 
rience of  yours  on  top  of  it  all  helped.  Yes,  I'm 
altered ;  I'm  altered  and  against  my  natural  inclina- 
tion. That  very  woman  is  the  one  particular  human 
thorn  in  my  flesh,  and  yet,  yet,  child,  as  the  Lord 
is  my  Master,  I  mighty  nigh  feel  sorry  for  her.  I 

342 


Ann    Boyd 

mighty  nigh  pity  the  poor,  old,  sin-slashed  creature 
housed  up  there  in  solitary  darkness  with  her  bleed- 
ing pride  and  envy  and  hate.  I  pity  her  now,  I 
reckon,  because  the  way  this  has  turned  out  hurts 
her  more  than  any  open  fight  she  could  have  with 
me.  I'd  'a'  died  long  ago  under  all  the  slush  and 
mire  that  was  dabbed  on  me  if  I  hadn't  amused 
myself  making  money.  I  didn't  have  the  social 
standing  of  some  of  these  folks,  but  I  had  the  hard 
cash,  and  the  clink  of  my  coin  has  been  almost  as 
loud  as  their  taunts.  But  your  ma — she's  had  very 
little  substance  all  along,  and  that  little  has  been 
dwindling  day  by  day,  till  she  finds  herself  without 
a  dollar  and  owing  her  very  life  to  a  woman  she 
hates.  Yes,  her  lot  is  a  hard  one,  and  I'm  sorry 
for  her.  I  pity  your  mammy,  child." 


XXXVII 

two  weeks  longer  Jane  Heming- 
way, to  the  inexplicable  sorrow  of  her 
gentle  and  mystified  daughter,  kept 
the  seclusion  of  her  room.  The  cur- 
tains of  the  single  window  looking  out 
on  the  yard  in  the  rear  were  constantly  drawn, 
and,  though  the  girl  sometimes  listened  attentively 
with  her  ear  to  the  wall,  she  heard  no  sound  to 
indicate  that  her  mother  ever  moved  from  her  bed 
or  her  chair  at  the  fireplace,  where  she  sat  enveloped 
in  blankets.  She  had  allowed  Virginia  to  push  a 
plate  containing  her  meals  three  times  a  day  through 
the  door,  but  the  things  were  promptly  received  into 
the  darkness  and  only  sullen  silence  was  the  invari- 
able response  to  the  frequent  inquiries  the  girl  made. 
One  morning  Sam  stopped  his  niece  in  the  yard 
near  the  well,  a  droll,  half -amused  expression  on  his 
face.  " Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  believe  I'd 
'a'  made  a  bang-up  detective  if  I'd  given  time  to  it." 
"Do  you  think  so?"  Virginia  said,  absently. 
"Yes,  I  do,"  he  replied.  "Now,  I'm  going  to 
give  you  an  instance  of  what  a  body  can  discover 
by  sticking  two  and  two  together  and  nosing  around 
till  you  are  plumb  sure  you  know  what  a  certain 
thing  means.  Now,  you  are  a  woman — not  an  old 
one,  but  a  woman  all  the  same — and  they  are  sup- 

344 


Ann   Boyd 

posed  to  see  what's  at  the  ends  of  their  noses  and  a 
heap  beyond,  but  when  it  comes  to  detective  work 
they  are  not  in  it.  I  reckon  it's  because  they  won't 
look  for  what  they  don't  want  to  see,  and  to  make  a 
good  detective  a  body  must  pry  into  everything  that 
is  in  sight.  Well,  to  come  down  to  the  case  in  hand, 
you've  been  sticking  grub  through  that  crack  in  the 
door  to  your  mammy,  who  put  herself  in  limbo 
several  weeks  ago,  but  in  all  that  time  you  haven't 
seen  the  color  of  her  cheeks  to  know  whether  the 
fare  is  fattening  her  or  thinning  her  down  to  the 
bone.  In  fact,  you  nor  me,  on  the  outside,  hain't 
supposed  to  know  a  blasted  thing  about  what's  go- 
ing on  in  there.  But — and  there's  where  detective 
work  conies  in — one  morning — it  was  day  before 
yesterday,  to  be  accurate — I  took  notice  that  all  the 
stray  cats  and  ducks  and  chickens  had  quit  bask- 
ing on  the  sunny  side  of  the  house  and  was  staying 
around  your  mammy's  window.  Now,  thinks  I, 
that's  odd;  that's  not  according  to  the  general  run; 
so  I  set  in  to  watching,  and  what  do  you  reckon? 
I  found  out  that  all  them  Noah's  Ark  passengers, 
of  the  two  and  four  footed  sort,  had  assembled  there 
to  get  their  meals.  Your  mammy  was  regularly 
throwing  out  the  dainty  grub  you  fixed  for  her.  I 
laid  in  wait  nigh  the  window  this  morning  and  saw 
her  empty  the  plate.  I  went  close  and  took  a  look. 
She  had  just  nibbled  a  bit  or  two,  like  the  pecking 
of  a  sparrow,  out  of  the  centre  of  the  bread-slices, 
but  she  hadn't  touched  the  eggs  nor  the  streak-o'- 
lean-streak-o'-fat  you  thought  she  set  such  store  by. 
Good  Lord,  Virgie,  don't  you  think  the  thing's  gone 
far  enough  —  having  a  drove  of  cats  fed  on  the 
33  345 


Ann    Boyd 

fat  o'  the  land,  when  me  and  you  are  living  on 
scraps?" 

"Uncle" — Virginia's  startled  eyes  bore  down  on 
him  suddenly — "what  does  it  mean?" 

"Mean?  Why,  that  there'll  be  a  passle  of  cats 
on  this  place  too  fat  to  walk,  while  me  'n'  you'll  be 
too  lean  to  cast  a  shadow  if  we  stood  side  by  side  in 
the  sun." 

"Oh,  uncle,  do  you  suppose  she  is  worse?"  Vir- 
ginia asked,  in  deep  concern. 

"I  don't  know,"  Sam  said,  seriously,  "my  Pink- 
erton  job  ended  with  the  discovery  of  them  cat 
banquets,  but  I've  about  reached  one  opinion." 

"And  what  is  that?"  the  girl  asked,  anxiously, 
as  she  bent  towards  her  uncle. 

"  Why,  I  think  maybe  she's  so  mad  and  set  back 
by  all  that's  happened  that  she's  trying  to  starve 
herself  to  death  to  get  even." 

"Oh,  uncle,  don't  say  that!"  Virginia  cried — 
"don't!  don't!" 

"Well,  then,  you  study  it  out,"  he  said.  "It's 
too  much  for  me." 

That  morning  Virginia  quietly  slipped  over  to 
Ann  Boyd's  and  confided  the  new  phase  of  the  situa- 
tion to  her  sympathetic  friend,  but  Ann  could  not 
account  for  Jane's  strange  conduct,  and  Virginia 
returned  home  no  wiser  than  she  had  left.  How- 
ever, at  the  fence  she  met  Sam.  His  face  was  aglow 
with  excitement. 

"What  you  reckon?"  he  said.  "The  bird  has 
flown." 

"Mother,  you  mean?" 

"  Yes,  she's  skipped  clean  out.  It  was  this  way : 
346 


Ann  Boyd 

Pete  Denslow  drove  past  about  twenty  minutes 
ago  in  his  empty  two-horse  wagon,  and  I  hollered 
out  to  him  and  asked  him  where-away.  He  pulled 
up  at  the  gate  and  said  he  was  going  over  the 
mountain  to  Gilmer  after  a  load  of  ginseng  to  fetch 
back  to  Darley.  Well,  sir,  no  sooner  had  he  said 
that  than  your  mammy  piped  up  from  her  dungeon, 
where  she  stood  listening  at  a  crack,  and  said,  said 
she,  sorter  sheepish-like :  '  Sam,  ask  him  if  he  will 
let  me  go  with  him ;  I  promised  to  go  see  Sally  Maud 
Pincher  over  there  the  first  time  any  wagon  was 
passing,  and  I  want  to  go.'  Well,  I  told  Pete,  and 
he  looked  at  the  sun  and  wanted  to  know  how  long 
it  would  take  her  to  get  ready.  She  heard  him,  and 
yelled  out  from  the  door  that  she'd  be  out  in  five 
minutes,  and,  bless  you,  she  was  on  the  seat  beside 
him  in  less  time  in  her  best  clothes  and  carpet-bag 
in  hand.  She  was  as  white  in  the  face  as  a  convict 
out  taking  a  sunning,  and  her  gingham  looked  like 
it  was  hanging  from  a  hook  on  her  neck,  she  was 
that  thin.  She  never  said  a  word  to  me  as  she 
went  by.  At  first  I  thought  she  was  plumb  crazy, 
but  she  had  the  clearest  eye  in  her  head  I  ever  saw, 
and  she  was  chattering  away  to  Pete  about  the 
weather  as  if  he  was  an  unmarried  man  and  she  was 
on  the  carpet." 

"Oh,  uncle,  what  do  you  think  it  means?"  Vir- 
ginia sighed,  deeply  worried. 

"Why,  I  think  it's  a  fine  sign,  myself,"  said  Sam. 
"I'm  not  as  good  a  judge  of  women  as  I  am  of  mules 
— though  a  body  ought  to  know  as  much  of  one  as 
the  other — but  I  think  she's  perhaps  been  want- 
ing to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  some  time  and 

347 


Ann  Boyd 

didn't  like  to  acknowledge  she  was  tired  of  cave- 
life.  Over  there  at  Pincher's,  you  see,  she  can  slide 
back  into  her  old  ways  without  attracting  attention 
by  it." 

"  And  she  didn't  leave  a  word  of  directions  to  me  ?" 
the  girl  said,  sadly. 

"Not  a  word,"  was  the  droll  reply.  "I  didn't 
say  good-bye  to  her  myself.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
had  noticed  that  she'd  forgot  to  put  up  a  snack  for 
her  and  Pete  to  eat  on  £he  way,  and  I  was  afraid 
she  might  remember  it  at  the  last  minute  and  take 
what  little  there  was  left  for  you  and  me." 

But  Jane  evidently  had  something  to  attend  to 
before  paying  her  promised  visit  to  Sally  Maud 
Pincher,  for  on  their  arrival  at  the  village  of  Ellijay, 
the  seat  of  the  adjoining  county,  she  asked  her 
obliging  conveyer  to  put  her  down  at  the  hotel, 
where  she  intended  to  spend  the  night.  It  was 
then  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  she 
went  into  the  little  office,  which  looked  like  a  parlor 
in  a  farm-house,  and  registered  her  name  and  was 
given  a  room  with  a  sky-blue  door  and  ceiling  and 
whitewashed  walls,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She 
sat  after  that  at  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
dreary  street  and  the  lonely,  red-clay  road  leading 
up  the  mountain,  till  it  grew  dark.  She  went  down 
to  the  dining-room  when  the  great  brass  bell  was 
rung  by  a  negro  boy  who  shook  it  vigorously  as  he 
walked  through  the  hall  and  around  the  house, 
but  she  had  no  appetite  —  the  long,  jolting  jour- 
ney over  the  rough  road  had  weakened  rather  than 
stimulated  her  faint  physical  needs,  and  so  she  took 
only  a  glass  of  milk,  into  which  she  had  dropped  a 

348 


Ann    Boyd 

few  morsels  of  bread,  eating  the  mixture  with  a 
spoon  like  a  child. 

"If  I'm  going  to  do  this  thing,"  she  mused,  as 
she  sat  on  her  bed  in  her  night-dress  and  twisted  her 
hair  in  a  knot,  "the  quicker  it's  over  the  better. 
When  I  left  home  it  seemed  easy  enough,  but  now 
it's  awful — simply  awful!" 

She  slept  soundly  from  sheer  fatigue,  and  was  up 
the  next  morning  and  dressed  before  the  hotel  cook, 
an  old  woman,  had  made  a  fire  in  the  range.  She 
walked  down-stairs  into  the  empty  hall  and  out  on 
the  front  veranda,  but  saw  no  one.  The  ground 
was  white  with  frost  and  the  mountain  air  was  crisp 
and  cutting,  but  it  seemed  to  have  put  color  into 
her  cheeks.  Going  through  the  office,  where  she 
saw  no  one,  she  went  into  the  dining-room  just  as 
the  cook  was  coming  in  from  the  adjoining  kitchen. 

"Good -morning,"  Jane  said.  "I've  got  about 
four  miles  to  walk,  and,  as  I've  lately  been  down 
sick  in  bed,  I  want  to  sorter  take  it  slow  and  get  an 
early  start.  I  paid  my  bill  before  I  went  to  bed 
last  night,  including  breakfast,  and  if  you  could 
give  me  a  slice  of  bread-and-butter  and  a  cup  of 
coffee  that  will  be  all  I  want." 

"Well,  I  can  get  them  ready  in  a  minute,"  said 
the  woman,  "but  I'd  hate  to  do  a  four-mile  walk 
on  as  little  as  that." 

"I've  been  sort  of  dieting  myself,"  Jane  said, 
perhaps  recalling  her  past  bounty  to  the  cats  and 
chickens  at  the  window  of  her  room,  "and  I  don't 
need  much." 

"Well,  all  right,"  said  the  cook,  spreading  a  nap- 
kin at  one  end  of  a  long  table;  "you  set  down  here 

,349 


Ann    Boyd 

and  I'll  supply  you  in  a  few  minutes.  The  land- 
lord leaves  me  in  charge  here  till  he  gets  up.  He's 
a  late  sleeper ;  he  was  out  last  night  at  the  trial  of 
the  moonshiners.  You  say  you  paid  for  breakfast 
in  your  bill.  I  think  it's  a  shame.  If  he  wasn't  so 
easy  to  make  mad,  I'd  go  shake  him  up  and  get  some 
of  your  money  back.  I  don't  happen  to  tote  the 
key  to  the  cash-drawer.  I  reckon  you  paid  seventy- 
five  cents  for  supper,  bed,  and  breakfast — 's.,  b.,  and 
b.,'  we  call  it  for  short — and  you  are  entitled  to  a 
full  round — meat,  eggs,  fish  (in  season),  batter-cakes 
or  waffles,  whichever  it  is.  Our  waffle-irons  are  split 
right  half  in  two,  and  we  just  give  batter-cakes 
now;  but  folks  know  the  brand  clean  to  Darley. 
You  ought  to  see  the  judge  tackle  'em  during  court 
week;  him  and  the  district-attorney  had  a  race  the 
other  night  to  see  which  could  eat  the  most.  I  had 
three  pans  running,  and  such  a  smoke  of  burning 
lard  in  the  kitchen  you  couldn't  have  seen  a  white 
cat  in  an  inch  of  your  nose.  The  whole  jury  and 
a  lots  of  witnesses  under  guard  of  the  sheriff  was 
allowed  to  look  on.  The  judge  beat.  The  lawyer 
got  so  full  he  couldn't  talk,  and  that  was  the  signal 
to  call  a  halt.  I  was  glad,  for  old  Mrs.  Macklin  was 
waiting  in  the  kitchen  to  try  to  hear  if  there  was 
any  chance  to  save  her  son,  who  was  being  tried 
for  killing  that  feller  in  the  brick-yard  last  summer. 
Ever'  time  I'd  come  in  for  fresh  cakes  she'd  look 
up  sorter  pitiful-like  to  see  if  I'd  heard  anything. 
They'd  already  agreed  to  send  'im  up  for  life,  but 
I  didn't  know  it.  Yes,  you  ought  to  have  a  quarter 
of  that  money  back,  anyway.  Unless  a  knife  and 
fork  is  used,  I  make  a  habit,  when  it's  left  to  me, 

350 


Ann   Boyd 

not  to  charge  a  cent,  and  you  don't  look  like  you 
are  overly  flush." 

"No,  but  I'm  satisfied  as  it  is,"  Jane  said,  as  she 
finished  her  bread  and  milk.  "I  didn't  expect  to 
get  it  for  any  less." 


XXXVIII 

FEW  minutes  later,  with  her  flabby 
carpet  -  bag  on  her  sharp  hip,  Jane 
fared  forth  on  the  mountain  road, 
which  led  farther  eastward.  She  walk- 
ed slowly  and  with  increased  effort, 
for  the  high  altitude  seemed  to  affect  her  respira- 
tion, and,  light  as  it  was,  the  carpet-bag  became 
cumbersome  and  she  had  to  pause  frequently  to 
rest. 

"Yes,  if  I'm  going  to  do  it,  I'll  have  to  plunge  in 
and  do  it,  and  be  done  with  the  matter,"  she  kept 
saying.  "I  reckon  it  isn't  the  first  time  such  a 
thing  has  been  heard  of."  She  passed  several  hum- 
ble mountain  houses,  built  of  logs,  on  the  way,  but 
stopped  at  none  of  them.  The  sun  was  near  the 
zenith  when  she  came  to  a  double  log-cabin  standing 
back  on  a  plot  of  newly  cleared  land  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  rocky  road.  A  tall,  plain-looking  girl,  with 
a  hard,  unsympathetic  face,  stood  in  the  doorway, 
and  she  stepped  down  to  the  ground  and  quieted  a 
snarling  dog  which  was  chained  to  a  stake  driven 
into  the  earth. 

"I  reckon  you  are  Nettie  Boyd,  ain't  you?"  Jane 
said. 

" I  used  to  be,"  the  young  woman  answered.  "I 
married  a  Lawson — Sam  Lawson — awhile  back." 

352 


Ann   Boyd 

"Oh  yes,  I  forgot  that.  I'd  heard  it,  too,  of 
course,  but  it  slipped  my  memory.  I'm  a  Hem- 
ingway, from  over  in  Murray  County — Jane  Hem- 
ingway. I  used  to  be  acquainted  with  your  pa. 
Is  he  handy?" 

"Yes,  he  was  here  just  a  minute  ago,"  Ann  Boyd's 
daughter  answered.  "  He's  around  at  his  hay-stack 
pulling  down  some  roughness  for  the  cow.  Go  in 
and  take  a  seat  and  I'll  call  him.  Lay  your  bonnet 
on  the  bed  and  make  yourself  at  home." 

Jane  went  into  the  cabin,  the  walls  of  which  were 
unlined,  being  only  the  bare  logs  with  the  bark  on 
them.  The  cracks  where  the  logs  failed  to  fit  closely 
together  were  filled  with  the  red  clay  from  the  hills 
around.  There  was  not  a  picture  in  sight,  not  an 
ornament  on  the  crude  board  shelf  over  the  rugged 
mud-and-stone  fireplace.  From  wooden  pegs  driven 
in  auger-holes  in  the  walls  hung  the  young  bride's 
meagre  finery,  in  company  with  what  was  evidently 
her  husband's  best  suit  of  clothes  and  hat.  Beneath 
them,  on  the  floor,  stood  a  pair  of  new  woman's  shoes, 
dwarfed  by  contrast  to  a  heavier  and  larger  mascu- 
line pair.  Jane  sat  down,  rolling  her  bonnet  in  her 
stiff  fingers.  The  chair  she  sat  on  was  evidently  of 
home  make,  for  the  rockers  were  unevenly  sawed, 
and,  on  the  unplaned  boards  of  the  floor,  it  had 
a  joggling,  noisy  motion  when  in  use.  There  were 
two  beds  in  the  room,  made  of  rough,  pine  planks. 
The  coverings  of  the  beds  were  not  in  order  and  the 
pillows  were  soiled. 

"If  she'd  'a'  stayed  on  with  Ann  she  would  'a' 
made  a  better  house-keeper  than  that,"  Jane  mused. 
"She's  a  sight,  too,  with  her  hair  uncombed  and 

353 


Ann    Boyd 

dress  so  untidy  so  soon  after  the  honeymoon.  I 
can  see  now  that  her  and  Ann  never  would  get  on 
together.  Anybody  could  take  one  look  at  that 
girl  and  see  she's  selfish.  I  wonder  what  that  fellow 
ever  saw  in  her?" 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  outside.  With  a 
start,  Jane  drew  herself  erect.  The  carpet-bag  on 
her  knees  threatened  to  fall,  and  she  lowered  it  to 
the  floor.  Her  ordeal  was  before  her. 

"Why,  howdy  do?" 

Joe  Boyd,  in  tattered  shirt,  trousers  patched  upon 
patches,  and  gaping  shoes  through  which  his  bare 
toes  showed,  stood  in  the  doorway.  That  the  old 
beau  and  the  once  most  popular  young  man  of  the 
country-side  could  stand  looking  like  that  before  her, 
even  after  the  lapse  of  all  those  trying  years,  and 
not  feel  abashed,  was  one  of  the  inexplicable  things 
that  rushed  through  Jane  Hemingway's  benumbed 
brain.  That  she,  herself,  could  be  looking  at  the 
very  husk  of  the  ideal  of  manhood  she  had  held  all 
those  years  and  not  cry  out  in  actual  pain  over  the 
pitiful  evidences  of  his  collapse  from  his  high  estate 
was  another  thing  she  marvelled  over.  Joe  Boyd! 
Could  it  actually  be  he  ?  Could  those  gaunt,  talon- 
nailed  members,  with  their  parchment-like  skin,  be 
the  hands  she  used  to  think  so  shapely?  Could 
those  splaying  feet  be  the  feet  that  had  tripped  more 
lightly  in  the  Virginia  Reel  than  those  of  any  other 
man  for  miles  around  ?  Could  those  furtive,  harsh- 
glancing  eyes  be  the  deep,  dreamy  ones  in  which 
she  had  once  seen  the  mirage  of  her  every  girlish 
hope  ?  Could  that  rasping  tone  come  from  the  voice 
whose  never  diminishing  echo  had  rung  in  her  ears 

354 


Ann   Boyd 

through  all  those  years  of  hiding  her  secret  from 
the  man  she  had  married  out  of  "spite,"  through 
all  her  long  tooth-in-flesh  fight  with  the  rival  who 
had  temporarily  won  and  held  him  ? 

She  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  the  two 
stood  facing  each  other,  she  speechless,  he  thorough- 
ly at  his  indolent  ease. 

"Well,  I  reckon,  Jane,  old  girl,"  he  laughed,  as  he 
wiped  a  trickling  stream  of  tobacco-juice  from  the 
corner  of  his  sagging  mouth,  "that  you  are  the  very 
last  human  being  I  ever  expected  to  lay  eyes  on 
again.  I  swear  I  wouldn't  'a'  known  you  from 
Adam's  cat  if  Nettie  hadn't  told  me  who  it  was. 
My,  how  thin  you  look,  and  all  bent  over!" 

"Yes,  I'm  changed,  and  you  are  too,  Joe,"  she 
said,  as,  with  a  stiff  hand  beneath  her,  she  sought 
the  chair  again. 

"Yes  " — he  went  to  the  doorway  and  spat  volumi- 
nously out  into  the  yard,  and  came  back  swinging  a 
chair  as  lightly  in  his  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  base- 
ball bat  with  which  he  was  playing — "yes,  I  reckon 
I  am  altered  considerable;  a  body's  more  apt  to 
see  changes  in  others  than  in  himself.  I  was  just 
thinking  the  other  day  about  them  old  times.  La 
me!  how  much  fun  we  all  did  have,  but  it  didn't 
last— it  didn't  last." 

He  sat  down,  leaning  forward  and  clasping  his 
dry-palmed  hands  with  a  sound  like  the  rubbing 
together  of  two  pieces  of  paper.  There  was  an 
awkward  silence.  Nettie  Lawson  came  to  the  door 
and  glanced  in  inquiringly,  and  then  went  away. 
They  heard  her  calling  her  chickens  some  distance 
from  the  cabin. 

355 


Ann   Boyd 

"No,  I  wouldn't  have  recognized  you  if  I'd  met 
you  alone  in  the  big  road,"  he  said,  "nor  you 
wouldn't  me,  I  reckon." 

"Joe  " — she  was  looking  about  the  room — "  some- 
how I  had  an  idea  that  you  were  in — in  a  little 
better  circumstances  than — than  you  seem  to  be  in 
now." 

"Well,  that  wouldn't  be  hard  to  imagine,  any- 
way," he  said,  with  an  intonation  like  a  sigh,  if  it 
wasn't  one.  "If  a  body  couldn't  imagine  a  better 
fix  for  a  man  to  be  in  than  I  am  in,  they'd  bet- 
ter quit.  Lord,  Lord,  I  reckon  I  ought  to  be  dead 
ashamed  to  meet  you  in  this  condition  when  you 
knew  me  away  back  in  them  palmy  days,  but,  Jane, 
I  really  believe  I  've  sunk  below  that  sort  of  a  feeling. 
You  know  I  used  to  cut  a  wide  swath  when  I  had 
plenty  of  money  and  friends,  but  what's  the  use  of 
crying  over  spilt  milk?  This  is  all  there  is  left  of 
me.  I  managed  to  marry  Nettie  off  to  a  feller  good 
enough  in  his  way.  I  thought  he  was  a  fine  catch, 
but  I  don't  know.  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
his  folks  had  some  money  to  give  him  to  sorter  start 
the  two  out,  but  it  seems  they  didn't  have,  and  was 
looking  for  a  stake  themselves.  Since  they  married 
he  just  stays  round  here,  contented  and  about  as 
shiftless  as  anybody  could  be.  I  thought,  for  in- 
stance, that  he  never  got  in  debt,  but  a  store-keeper 
in  town  told  me  the  other  day  that  he  owed  him  for 
the  very  duds  he  was  married  in." 

"That's  bad,  that's  powerful  bad,"  Jane  said, 
sympathetically.  Then  a  fixed  look  took  possession 
of  her  eyes,  and  her  fingers  tightened  on  her  bonnet 
in  her  lap,  as  she  plunged  towards  the  thing  with 

356 


Ann  Boyd 

which  she  was  burdened.  "Joe,"  she  continued, 
"I've  come  all  the  way  over  the  mountain  in  my 
delicate  health  to  see  you  about  a  particular  matter. 
God  knows  it's  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  contem- 
plated, but  there  is  no  other  way  out  of  it." 

"Well,  I  think  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say," 
he  answered,  avoiding  her  eyes. 

"You  do,  Joe?"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh  no,  surely, 
you  can't  know  that." 

"Well,  I  think  I  can  make  a  good  guess,"  he  said, 
awkwardly  twirling  his  fingers  round  and  round. 
"You  see,  I  always  make  a  habit,  when  I  happen  to 
meet  anybody  from  over  your  way,  of  asking  about 
old  acquaintances,  and  I  heard  some  time  back  that 
you  was  in  deep  trouble.  They  said  you  had  some 
high-priced  doctoring  to  do  in  Atlanta,  and  that  you 
was  going  from  old  friend  to  old  friend  for  what  little 
help  they  could  give.  I'm  going  to  see  what  I  can 
do  towards  it  myself,  since  you've  taken  such  a  long 
trip,  though,  Jane,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't 
actually  seen  a  ten-cent  piece  in  a  month.  I've  gone 
without  tobacco  when  I  thought  the  desire  for  it 
would  run  me  distracted.  So — " 

"I  didn't  come  for  help — Lord,  Lord,  I  only  wish 
it  was  that,  Joe.  I've  already  had  the  operation, 
and  I'm  recovering.  I've  come  over  here,  Joe,  to 
make  an  awful  confession." 

"A— a— what?"  he  said. 

There  was  a  pause.  Jane  Hemingway  unrolled 
her  bonnet  and  put  it  on,  pulling  the  hood  down  over 
her  line  of  vision. 

"Joe,  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I've  been  a  bad 
woman;  I've  been  a  bad,  sinning  woman  since  away 

357 


Ann  Boyd 

back  there  when  you  married  Ann.  Things  you 
used  to  say  to  me,  I  reckon,  turned  my  silly  head. 
You  remember  when  you  took  me  to  camp-meeting 
that  night,  and  we  sat  through  meeting  out  in  the 
buggy  under  the  trees.  I  reckon,  if  it  was  all  to 
do  over  you  wouldn't  have  said  so  much.  I  reckon 
you  wouldn't  if  you'd  known  you  were  planting  a 
seed  that  was  going  to  fructify  and  bear  the  fruit 
of  hate  and  enmity  that  would  never  rot ;  but,  for  all 
I  know,  you  may  have  been  saying  the  same  things 
to  other  girls  who  knew  better  how  to  take  them 
than  I  did." 

"Oh,  Jane,  I  was  a  fool  them  days,"  Joe  Boyd 
broke  in,  with  an  actual  flush  of  shame  in  his  tanned 
face. 

"Well,  never  mind  about  that,"  Jane  went  on, 
with  a  fresher  determination  under  his  own  admis- 
sion. "I  reckon  I  let  it  take  too  strong  a  hold  on 
me.  I  never  could  give  up  easy,  and  when  you  got 
to  going  with  Ann,  and  she  was  so  much  prettier 
and  more  sprightly  than  me,  it  worked  against  my 
nature.  It  hardened  me,  I  reckon.  I  married  soon 
after  you  did,  but  I  won't  tell  about  that;  he's  dead 
and  gone.  I  had  my  child — that  was  all,  except — 
except  my  hate  for  Ann.  I  couldn't  stand  to  see 
you  and  her  so  happy  together,  and  you  both  were 
making  money  and  I  was  losing  what  I  had.  Then, 
Joe,  we  all  heard  about — we  all  learned  Ann's  se- 
cret." 

"Don't — for  the  love  of  mercy — don't  fetch  that 
up!"  Boyd  groaned. 

"  But  I  have  to,  Joe,"  Jane  persisted,  softly.  "  At 
first  I  was  the  happiest  woman  that  the  devil  ever 

358 


Ann    Boyd 

delighted  by  flashing  a  lying  promise  with  his  fire 
on  a  wall.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  scorn  her, 
but  I  saw  that  day  I  met  you  at  the  meeting-house 
that  you  were  inclined  to  condone  the  past,  and 
that  drove  me  wild;  so  I — "  Jane  choked  up  and 
paused. 

"I  remember  that  day,"  Joe  Boyd  said,  with  a 
deep  breath.  "I'll  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live, 
for  what  you  said  dropped  me  back  into  the  bottom- 
less pit  of  despair.  I'd  been  trying  to  think  she'd 
been  straight  with  me  since  we  married,  but  when 
you—" 

"What  I  told  you  that  morning,  Joe,  was  a  cold, 
deliberate  lie!" 

"A — a — "  he  stammered.  "No,  no,  you  don't 
mean  that — you  can't  mean — " 

' '  Every — single — thing — I — told  — you — that — 
day — was — a — lie  I"  Jane  said,  with  an  emphatic 
pause  between  each  word. 

"I  can't  understand.  I  don't  see  —  really,  Jane, 
you  can't  mean  that  what  you  said  about  Chester's 
going  there  day  after  day  when  my  back  was  turned, 
and  that  you  saw  them  together  in  the  woods  below 
your  house  that  day  when  I  was — " 

"Everything  I  told  you  was  a  lie  from  the  devil, 
out  of  the  very  fumes  of  hell,"  Jane  said,  pulling 
off  her  bonnet  and  looking  him  squarely  in  the  face. 
"A  He— a  lie,  Joe." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Boyd  cried.  "And  I,  all  these 
years  I  have — " 

"You've  been  believing  what  I  said.  But  I'm 
not  through  yet.  I've  been  in  a  dark  room  fasting 
and  praying  for  a  month  to  overcome  my  evil 

359 


Ann    Boyd 

inclination  not  to  speak  the  truth,  and  I  finally 
conquered,  so  I'm  going  to  tell  the  whole  thing. 
Joe,  Ann  Boyd  is  the  best  woman  God  ever  let  live. 
She  was  as  true  as  steel  to  you  from  the  day  she 
married  till  now.  I  have  been  after  her  day  and 
night,  never  giving  her  a  moment's  rest  from  my 
persecutions,  and  how  do  you  reckon  she  retaliated  ? 
She  paid  me  back  by  actually  saving  my  worthless 
life  and  trying  to  keep  me  from  knowing  who  did  it. 
She  did  something  else.  She  did  me  the  greatest 
favor  one  woman  could  possibly  do  another.  I 
don't  intend  to  say  what  that  particular  thing  was, 
but  she  must  have  the  credit.  Now  I'm  through. 
I'm  going  back  home." 

Boyd  drew  his  ill -clad  feet  towards  him.  He 
spread  out  his  two  arms  wide  and  held  them  so, 
steadily.  "Look  at  me — just  look  at  me,"  he  said. 
"Woman,  before  you  go  back,  take  one  good  look 
at  me.  You  come  to  me — a  mere  frazil  of  what  I 
once  was — when  there  is  no  hope  of  ever  regaining 
my  youth  and  self-respect  —  and  tell  me — oh,  my 
God! — tell  me  that  I  believed  you  instead  of  her! 
She  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  on  her  knees  before 
me,  that  that  first  mistake  was  all,  and  I  told  her 
she  lied  in  her  throat,  and  left  her,  dragging  from 
her  clinging  arms  the  child  of  her  breast,  bringing  it 
up  and  raising  it  to  what  you  see  she  is.  And  now 
you  come  literally  peeping  into  my  open  coffin  and 
telling  this  to  my  dead  face.  Great  God,  woman, 
before  Heaven  I  feel  like  striking  you  where  you  set, 
soaked  in  repentance  though  you  are.  All  these 
misspent  years  I've  been  your  cowardly  tool,  and 
her— her— " 

360 


Ann    Boyd 

"I  deserve  it — talk  on!"  Jane  Hemingway  said, 
as  she  rose  and  clutched  her  carpet-bag  and  held  it 
tremblingly. 

But  Joe  Boyd's  innate  gentleness  had  been  one 
of  the  qualities  many  women  loved,  and  even  before 
the  cowering  creature  who  had  wrecked  his  life  he 
melted  in  manly  pity. 

"No,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand  with  some- 
thing like  one  of  his  old  gestures — "no,  I'm  going 
too  far,  Jane.  We  are  all  obedient  to  natural  laws, 
as  Ann  used  to  say.  Your  laws  have  made  you  do 
just  as  you  have,  and  so  have  mine.  Away  back 
there  in  the  joy- time  of  youth  my  laws  made  me 
say  too  much  to  you.  As  you  say,  I  planted  the 
seed.  I  did;  I  planted  the  seed  that  bore  all  the 
fruit;  I  planted  it  when  I  kissed  you,  Jane,  and  said 
them  things  to  you  that  night  which  I  forgot  the 
next  day.  Ann  could  have  made  something  out  of 
me  better  than  this.  As  long  as  I  had  her  to  manage 
me,  I  did  well.  You  see  what  I  am  now." 

"Yes,  I  see;  and  I'm  as  sorry  as  I  know  how  to 
be."  Jane  sighed  as  she  passed  out  into  the  open 
sunlight.  "I'm  going  home,  Joe.  I  may  never  lay 
eyes  on  you  again  in  this  life.  If  you  can  say  any- 
thing to  make  me  feel  better,  I'd  be  thankful." 

"There  isn't  anything,  except  what  I  said  just 
now  about  our  natural  laws,  Jane,"  he  said,  as  he 
stood  shading  his  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
"Sometimes  I  think  that  nobody  hain't  to  blame 
for  nothing  they  do,  and  that  all  of  this  temporary 
muddle  is  just  the  different  ways  human  beings  have 
of  struggling  on  to  a  better  world  beyond  this." 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  might,  in  so  many  words, 


Ann    Boyd 

say  plain  out  that  you'd  forgive  me,  Joe."  She  had 
turned  her  face  towards  the  road  she  was  to  travel, 
and  her  once  harsh  lip  was  quivering  like  that  of  a 
weeping  child. 

"The  natural  law  would  come  in  there,  too," 
Boyd  sighed.  "  Forgiveness,  of  the  right  sort,  don't 
spring  to  the  heart  in  such  a  case  as  this  like  a  flash 
of  powder  in  the  pan.  If  I'm  to  forgive,  I  will  in 
due  time,  I  reckon;  but  right  now,  Jane,  I  feel  too 
weak  and  tired,  even  for  that — too  weak  and  heart- 
sick and  undone." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  pray  for  it,  Joe,"  she  said,  as 
she  started  away.  "Good-bye.  May  the  Lord 
above  bless  you." 

"Good-bye,  Jane;  do  the  best  you  can,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  try  to  do  the  same." 


XXXIX 

[HE  following  Sunday  afternoon  Mrs. 
Waycroft  hastened  over  to  Ann  Boyd's. 
She  walked  very  rapidly  across  the 
fields  and  through  the  woods  rather 
than  by  the  longer  main  road.  She 
found  Ann  in  her  best  dress  seated  in  her  dining- 
room  reading  Luke  King's  paper,  which  had  come 
the  day  before.  She  looked  up  and  smiled  and 
nodded  to  the  visitor. 

"I  just  wish  you'd  listen  to  this,"  she  said,  en- 
thusiastically. "And  when  you've  heard  it,  if  you 
don't  think  that  boy  is  a  genius  you'll  miss  it  by  a 
big  jump.  On  my  word,  such  editorials  as  this  will 
do  more  good  than  all  the  preaching  in  Christendom. 
I've  read  it  four  times.  Sit  down  and  listen." 

"No,  you've  got  to  listen  to  me,"  said  the  visitor. 
"That  can  wait;  it's  down  in  black  and  white,  while 
mine  is  fairly  busting  me  wide  open.  Ann,  do  you 
know  what  took  place  at  meeting  this  morning?" 

"Why,  no,  how  could  I?  You  know  I  said  I'd 
never  darken  that  door  again,  after  that  low-lived 
coward — " 

"Stop,  Ann,  and  listen!"  Mrs.  Waycroft  panted, 
as  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  leaned  forward.  "You 
know  I  go  seldom  myself,  but  by  some  chance  I  went 
this  morning.  I  always  feel  like  doing  the  best  I 

363 


Ann   Boyd 

can  towards  the  end  of  a  year.  Well,  I  had  hardly 
got  my  seat  and  Brother  Bazemore  had  just  got  up 
to  make  some  announcements,  when  who  should 
come  in  but  Jane  Hemingway.  Instead  of  stop- 
ping at  her  usual  place,  nigh  the  stove,  she  walked 
clean  up  to  the  altar-railing  and  stood  as  stiff  as  a 
post,  gazing  at  the  preacher.  He  was  busy  with 
his  notes  and  didn't  see  her  at  first,  though  every 
eye  in  the  house  was  fixed  on  her  in  wonder,  for  she 
was  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  so  thin  and  weak  that 
it  looked  like  the  lightest  wind  would  blow  her 
away.  'Brother  Bazemore/  she  said,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard,  in  her  shrill  voice,  clean  out  to  the 
horse-rack,  '  I  want  to  say  something,  and  I  want 
to  say  it  out  before  all  of  you." 

"Huh!"  Ann  grunted— "huh!" 

"Well,  he  looked  good  surprised,"  Mrs.  Waycroft 
went  on,  "but  you  know  he's  kind  o'  resentful  if 
folks  don't  show  consideration  for  his  convenience, 
so  he  looked  down  at  her  over  his  specks  and  said: 

"'Well,  sister,  I  reckon  the  best  time  for  that 
will  be  after  preaching,  and  then  them  that  want 
to  stay  can  do  so  and  feel  that  they  got  what  they 
waited  for.' 

" '  But  I  can't  wait,'  said  she.  '  What  I've  got  to 
say  must  be  said  now,  while  I'm  plumb  in  the  notion. 
If  I  waited  I  might  back  out,  and  I  don't  want  to 
do  it.' 

"Well,  he  give  in;  and,  Ann,  she  turned  around 
facing  us  all  and  took  off  her  bonnet  and  swung  it 
about  like  a  flag.  She  was  as  nigh  dead  in  looks  as 
any  corpse  I  ever  saw.  And  since  you  was  born, 
Ann,  you  never  heard  the  like.  Folks  was  so  inter- 

-  364 


Ann    Boyd 

ested  that  they  stared  as  if  their  eyes  was  popping 
out  of  their  sockets.  She  said  she'd  come  to  con- 
fess to  crime — that's  the  way  she  put  it — crime! 
She  said  she'd  been  passing  for  half  a  lifetime  in 
this  community  as  a  Christian  woman,  when  in  act- 
uality she  had  been  linked  body  and  soul  to  the 
devil.  Right  there  she  gulped  and  stood  with  her 
old  head  down;  then  she  looked  at  us  like  a  crazy 
person  and  went  on.  She  said  away  back  when  she 
was  a  girl  she'd  been  jealous  of  a  certain  girl,  and 
that  she'd  hounded  that  girl  through  a  long  life. 
She  had  made  it  her  particular  business  to  stir  up 
strife  against  that  woman  by  toting  lies  from  one 
person  to  another.  She  turned  sort  o'  sideways  to 
the  preacher  and  said:  'Brother  Bazemore,  what  I 
told  you  Ann  Boyd  said  about  you  that  time  was 
all  made  up — a  lie  out  of  whole  cloth.  I  told  you 
that  to  make  you  denounce  her  in  public,  and  you 
did.  I  kept  telling  her  neighbors  things  to  make  'em 
hate  her,  and  they  did.  I  told  her  husband  a  whole 
string  of  deliberate  lies  that  made  him  leave  her 
and  take  her  child  away.  I  spent  half  my  life  at 
this  thing,  to  have  it  end  like  this:  Men  and  women, 
the  woman  that  I  was  doing  all  that  against  was  the 
one  who  came  up  with  the  money  that  saved  my 
worthless  life  and  tried  to  hide  it  from  me  and  the 
rest  of  the  world.  She  not  only  done  that,  but  she 
done  me  even  a  greater  favor.  I  won't  say  what 
that  was,  but  nobody  but  an  angel  from  heaven, 
robed  in  the  flesh  of  earth,  could  have  done  that, 
for  it  was  the  very  thing  she  had  every  right  to  want 
to  see  visited  on  me.  That  act  would  have  paid  me 
back  in  my  own  coin,  and  she  wanted  to  count  out 

365 


Ann    Boyd 

the  money,  but  she  was  too  much  of  heaven  to  go 
through  it.  Instead  of  striking  at  me,  she  saved 
me  suffering  that  would  have  dragged  me  to  the 
dust  in  shame.  I've  come  here  to  say  all  this  be- 
cause I  want  to  do  her  justice,  if  I  can,  while  the 
breath  of  life  is  in  me.  I've  just  got  back  from 
Gilmer,  where  I  went  and  met  the  man  whose  life 
I  wrecked  —  her  husband.  I  told  him  the  truth, 
hoping  that  I  could  do  him  some  good  in  atonement, 
but  the  poor,  worn-out  man  seemed  too  utterly 
crushed  to  forgive  me." 

"Joe — she  went  to  Joel"  Ann  gasped,  rinding  her 
voice.  "Now,  I  reckon,  he  believes  me.  And  to 
think  that  Jane  Hemingway  would  say  all  that — 
do  all  that!  It  don't  seem  reasonable.  But  you 
say  she  actually— 

' '  Of  course  she  did, ' '  broke  in  the  narrator.  ' '  And 
when  she  was  through  she  marched  straight  down 
the  middle  aisle  and  stalked  outside.  Half  the  folks 
got  up  and  went  to  the  windows  and  watched  her 
tottering  along  the  road;  and  then  Brother  Baze- 
more  called  'em  back  and  made  'em  sit  down.  He 
said,  in  his  cold-blooded  way',  hemming  and  hawing, 
that  the  whole  community  had  been  too  severe,  and 
that  the  best  way  to  get  the  thing  settled  and 
smooth-running  again  was  to  agree  on  some  sort 
of  public  testimonial.  Ann,  I  reckon  fully  ten  men 
yelled  out  that  they  would  second  the  motion.  I 
never  in  all  my  life  saw  such  excitement.  Folks 
was  actually  crying,  and  this  one  and  that  one  was 
telling  kind  things  you  had  done  to  them.  Then 
they  all  got  around  me,  Ann,  and  they  made  a  lots 
over  me,  saying  I  was  the  only  one  who  had  acted 

366 


Ann    Boyd 

right,  and  that  I  must  ask  you  to  forgive  them. 
That  was  the  motion  Bazemore  put  and  carried  by 
a  vote  of  rising.  Half  of  them  was  so  anxious  to 
have  their  votes  counted  that  they  climbed  up  on 
the  benches  and  waved  their  hats  and  bonnets  and 
shawls,  and  yelled  out,  'Here!  here!'  Bazemore 
dismissed  without  preaching;  it  looked  like  he 
thought  nothing  he  could  say,  in  any  regular  line, 
would  count  in  such  a  tumult.  And  after  meeting 
dozens  of  'em  slid  up  to  me  and  snatched  my  hands 
and  told  me  to  speak  a  good  word  for  them;  they 
kept  it  up  even  after  I'd  got  outside,  some  of  'em 
walking  part  of  the  way  with  me  and  sending  mes- 
sages. Wait  till  I  catch  my  breath,  and  I'll  tell  you 
who  spoke  and  what  each  one  said,  as  well  as  I 
can." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Ann,  an  absent  look  in  her 
strong  face.  "I  believe  I'd  rather  not  hear  any 
more  of  it;  it  don't  make  one  bit  of  difference  one 
way  or  another." 

"Why,  Ann,  surely  you  won't  entertain  hard  feel- 
ings, now  that  they  all  feel  so  bad.  If  you  could 
only  'a'  been  there,  you  would — " 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  Ann  sighed,  and  with  her 
closed  hand  she  pounded  her  heavy  knee  restlessly. 
"You  see,  Mary — oh,  I  don't  know — but,  well,  I  can't 
possibly  be  any  way  but  the  way  the  Lord  made  me, 
and  to  save  my  life  I  can't  feel  grateful.  They  all 
just  seem  to  me  like  a  lot  of  spoilt  children  that 
laugh  or  cry  over  whatever  comes  up.  Somehow  a 
testimonial  from  a  congregation  like  that,  after  a 
lifetime  of  beating  me  and  covering  me  with  slime, 
seems  more  like  an  insult  than  a  compliment.  They 

367 


Ann    Boyd 

think  they  can  besmirch  the  best  part  of  my  life, 
and  then  rub  it  off  in  a  minute  with  good  intentions 
and  a  few  words.  Why,  it  was  the  same  sort  of 
whim  that  made  them  all  follow  Jane  Hemingway 
like  sheep  after  a  leader.  I  don't  hate  'em,  you 
understand,  but  what  they  do  or  say  simply  don't 
alter  my  feelings  a  speck.  I  have  known  all  along 
that  I  had  the  right  kind  of  —  character,  and  to 
listen  to  their  sniffling  testimony  on  the  subject 
would  seem  to  me  like — well,  like  insulting  my  own 
womanhood." 

"You  are  a  powerful  strange  creature,  Ann,"  Mrs. 
Waycroft  said,  reflectively,  "but,  I  reckon,  if  you 
hadn't  been  that  way  you  wouldn't  be  such  a 
wonderful  woman  in  so  many  ways.  I  was  holding 
something  back  for  the  last,  but  I  reckon  you'll  sniff 
at  that  more  than  what  I've  already  told  you. 
Ann,  when  I  got  home,  and  had  just  set  down  to 
eat  a  snack  before  running  over  to  you,  who  should 
come  to  my  back  gate  and  call  me  out  except  Jane 
herself.  She  stood  leaning  against  the  fence  like 
the  walk  had  nearly  done  her  up,  and  she  refused 
to  come  in  and  set  down.  She  said  she  wanted  me 
to  do  her  a  favor.  She  said  she  knew  I  was  at  meet- 
ing and  heard  what  she  said,  but  that  she  wanted 
me  to  come  to  you  for  her.  As  God  is  my  final 
Judge,  I  never  felt  such  pity  for  a  poor  rotten  shred 
of  humanity  in  all  my  life.  She  looked  like  she  was 
trying  to  cry,  but  was  too  dry  inside  to  do  anything 
but  wheeze;  her  very  eyes  seemed  to  be  literally 
on  fire;  she  looked  like  a  crazy  person  talking 
rationally.  She  said  she  wanted  me  to  tell  you 
how  sorry  and  broke  up  she  was,  that  she'd  pay 

368 


Ann    Boyd 

back  that  hundred  dollars  if  she  had  to  deed  away 
her  dead  body  to  some  medical  college.  She  said 
she  could  do  anything  on  earth  to  make  amends 
except  go  to  you  face  to  face  and  apologize — she'd 
walk  from  door  to  door  all  over  the  country,  she 
said,  and  tell  her  tale  of  shame,  but  she  couldn't 
say  it  to  you.  She  said  she  had  tried  for  weeks  to 
do  it,  but  she  knew  she'd  never  have  the  moral 
strength." 

"  She  talked  that  way  ?"  Ann  said,  looking  steadily 
out  into  the  sunshine  through  the  open  doorway. 

"Yes;  and  I  reckon  you  have  as  little  patience 
with  her  message  as  you  have  with  the  balance," 
said  the  visitor. 

"  No,  she's  different,  Mary,"  Ann  declared.  "Jane 
Hemingway  is  another  proposition  altogether.  She's 
fought  a  long,  fierce  fight,  and  God  Almighty's 
forces  have  whipped  her  clean  out.  She  was  a 
worthy  foe,  and  I  respect  her  more  now  than  I  ever 
did.  She  was  different  from  the  rest.  She  had  a 
cause.  She  had  something  to  fight  about.  She 
loved  Joe  Boyd  with  all  the  heart  she  ever  had,  and 
when  I  married  him  she  couldn't — simply  couldn't 
— let  it  rest.  She  held  on  like  a  bull-dog  with  his 
teeth  clamped  to  bone.  She's  beat;  I  won't  wait 
for  her  to  come  to  me;  I  may  take  a  notion  and 
go  to  her." 


XL 


T  was  a  crisp,  clear  day  in  December. 
Langdon  Chester  had  gone  to  Darley 
to  attend  to  the  banking  of  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  money  which  his 
father  had  received  for  cotton  on  the 
market.  It  happened  to  be  the  one  day  in  the  year 
in  which  the  town  was  visited  by  a  mammoth  cir- 
cus, and  the  streets  were  overflowing  with  mountain 
people  eager  to  witness  the  grand  street-parade, 
the  balloon  ascension,  the  side-shows,  and,  lastly, 
the  chief  performance  under  the  big  tent.  From 
the  quaint  old  Johnston  House,  along  Main  Street 
to  the  grain  warehouses  and  the  throbbing  and 
wheezing  cotton  compress,  half  a  mile  distant,  the 
street  was  filled  with  people  afoot,  in  carts,  wag- 
ons, and  buggies,  or  on  horseback.  All  this  joy  and 
activity  made  little  impression  on  Langdon  Chester. 
His  face  was  thin  and  sallow,  and  he  was  extremely 
nervous.  His  last  conversation  with  Virginia  and 
her  positive  refusal  to  consider  his  proposal  of  mar- 
riage had  left  him  without  a  hope  and  more  desper- 
ate than  his  best  friend  could  have  imagined  possible 
to  a  man  of  his  supposedly  callous  temperament. 
And  a  strange  fatality  seemed  to  be  dogging  his 
footsteps  and  linking  him  to  the  matter  which  he 
had  valiantly  attempted  to  lay  aside,  for  everywhere 


Ann   Boyd 

he  went  he  heard  laudatory  remarks  about  Luke 
King  and  his  marvellous  success  and  strength  of 
character.  In  the  group  of  lawyers  seated  in  the 
warm  sunshine  in  front  of  Trabue's  little  one-storied 
brick  office  on  the  street  leading  to  the  court-house, 
it  was  a  topic  of  more  interest  than  any  gossip  about 
the  circus.  It  was  Squire  Tomlinson's  opinion,  and 
he  had  been  to  the  legislature  in  Atlanta,  and  asso- 
ciated intimately  with  politicians  from  all  sections 
of  the  state,  that  King  was  a  man  who,  if  he  wished 
it,  could  become  the  governor  of  Georgia  as  easy  as 
falling  off  a  log,  or  even  a  senator  of  the  United 
States.  The  common  people  wanted  him,  the  squire 
declared;  they  had  worshipped  him  ever  since  his 
first  editorial  war-whoop  against  the  oppression  of 
the  political  ring,  the  all-devouring  trusts,  and  the 
corrupt  Northern  money-power.  The  squire,  blunt 
man  that  he  was,  caught  sight  of  Langdon  among 
his  listeners  and  playfully  made  an  illustration  out 
of  him.  "There's  a  chap,  gentlemen,  the  son  of  a 
good  old  friend  of  mine.  Now,  what  did  money, 
aristocratic  parentage,  family  brains,  and  military 
honors  do  for  him  ?  He  was  sent  to  the  best  college 
in  the  state,  with  plenty  of  spending-money  at  his 
command,  and  is  still  hanging  onto  the  strap  of  his 
daddy's  pocket-book — satisfied  like  we  all  were  in  the 
good  old  days  when  each  of  us  had  a  little  nigger 
to  come  and  put  on  our  shoes  for  us  and  bring  hot 
coffee  and  waffles  to  the  bed  after  we'd  tripped  the 
merry  toe  on  somebody's  farm  all  night.  Oh,  you 
needn't  frown,  Langdon;  you  know  it's  the  truth. 
He's  still  a  chip  off  the  old  block,  gentlemen,  while 
his  barefoot  neighbor,  a  scion  of  po'  white  stock, 


Ann    Boyd 

cooked  his  brain  before  a  cabin  pine-knot  fire  in 
studying,  like  Abe  Lincoln  did,  and  finally  went 
forth  to  conquer  the  world,  and  is  conquering  it  as 
fast  as  a  dog  can  trot.  It's  enough,  gentlemen,  to 
make  us  all  take  our  boys  from  school,  give  'em  a 
good  paddling,  and  put  'em  at  hard  toil  in  the 
field." 

"Thank  you  for  the  implied  compliment,  Squire," 
Langdon  said,  angrily.  "You  are  frank  enough 
about  it,  anyway." 

"Now,  there,  you  see,"  the  squire  exclaimed,  re- 
gretfully. "I've  gone  and  rubbed  him  the  wrong 
way,  and  I  meant  nothing  in  the  world  by  it." 

Langdon  bowed  and  smiled  his  acceptance  of  the 
apology,  though  a  scowl  was  on  his  face  as  he 
turned  to  walk  down  the  street.  From  the  con- 
versation he  had  learned  that  King  was  expected 
up  that  day  to  visit  his  family,  and  a  sickening 
shock  came  to  him  with  the  thought  that  it  really 
was  to  see  Virginia  that  he  was  coming.  Yes,  he 
was  now  sure  that  it  had  been  King's  attentions  to 
the  girl  which  had  turned  her  against  him  —  that 
and  the  powerful  influence  of  Ann  Boyd. 

These  thoughts  were  too  much  for  him.  He  went 
into  Asque's  bar,  at  the  hotel,  called  for  whiskey, 
and  remained  there  for  hours. 

Langdon  was  in  the  spacious  office  of  the  Johnston 
House  when  the  evening  train  from  Atlanta  came 
into  the  old-fashioned  brick  car-shed  at  the  door, 
and  King  alighted.  His  hand-bag  was  at  once 
snatched  by  an  admiring  negro  porter,  and  the  by- 
standers crowded  around  him  to  shake  hands. 
Langdon  stood  in  the  office  a  moment  later,  his 

372 


Ann    Boyd 

brain  benumbed  with  drink  and  jealous  fury,  and 
saw  his  rival  literally  received  into  the  open  arms 
of  another  eager  group.  Smothering  an  oath,  the 
young  planter  leaned  against  the  cigar-case  quite 
near  the  register,  over  which  the  clerk  stood  trium- 
phantly calling  to  King  to  honor  the  house  by 
writing  the  name  of  the  state's  future  governor. 
King  had  the  pen  in  his  hand,  when,  glancing  up, 
he  recognized  Langdon,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since 
his  return  from  the  West. 

"Why,  how  are  you,  Chester?"  he  said,  cordially. 

Langdon  stared.  His  brain  seemed  pressed  down- 
ward by  some  weight.  The  by-standers  saw  a 
strange,  half-insane  glare  in  his  unsteady  eyes,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"Why,  surely  you  remember  me, ' '  Luke  exclaimed, 
in  honest  surprise.  "  King's  my  name — Luke  King. 
It's  true  I  have  not  met  you  for  several  years, 
but—" 

"Oh,  it's  King,  is  it?"  Langdon  said,  calmly  and 
with  the  edge  of  a  sneer  on  his  white,  determined 
lip.  "I  didn't  know  if  you  were  sure  what  it  was. 
So  many  of  your  sort  spring  up  like  flies  in  hot 
weather  that  one  can't  tell  much  about  your  parent- 
age, except  on  the  maternal  side." 

There  was  momentous  silence.  The  crowded 
room  held  its  breath  in  sheer  astonishment.  King 
stared  at  his  antagonist  for  an  instant,  hoping 
against  hope  that  he  had  misunderstood.  Then  he 
took  a  deep  breath.  "That's  a  queer  thing  for  one 
man  to  say  to  another,"  he  said,  fixing  Chester  with 
a  steady  stare.  "Are  you  aware  that  a  remark  like 
that  might  reflect  on  the  honor  of  my  mother?" 

373 


Ann    Boyd 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  reflects  on,"  retorted  Chester. 
"  You  can  take  it  any  way  you  wish,  if  you  have  got 
enough  backbone." 

As  quick  as  a  flash  King's  right  arm  went  out 
and  his  massive  fist  landed  squarely  between  Ches- 
ter's eyes.  The  blow  was  so  strong  that  the  young 
planter  reeled  back  into  the  crowd,  instinctively 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  face.  King  was  ready  to 
strike  again,  but  some  of  his  friends  stopped  him 
and  pushed  him  back  against  the  counter.  Others 
in  the  crowd  forcibly  drew  his  maddened  antagonist 
away,  and  further  trouble  was  averted. 

With  a  hand  that  was  strangely  steady,  King 
registered  his  name  with  the  pen  the  clerk  was 
extending  to  him. 

"Let  it  drop,  King,"  the  clerk  said.  "He's  so 
drunk  he  hardly  knows  what  he's  doing.  He  seems 
to  have  it  in  for  you,  for  some  reason  or  other.  It 
looks  like  jealousy  to  me.  They  were  devilling  him 
over  at  Trabue's  office  awhile  ago  about  his  failure 
and  your  big  success.  Let  it  pass  this  time.  He'll 
be  ashamed  of  himself  as  soon  as  his  liquor  dies 
out." 

" Thank  you,  Jim,"  King  replied.  "I'll  let  it  rest, 
if  he  is  satisfied  with  what  he's  already  had." 

"Going  out  home  to-night?"  the  clerk  asked. 

"If  I  can  get  a  turnout  at  the  stable,"  King 
answered. 

"You  will  have  to  take  a  room  here,  then,"  the 
clerk  smiled,  "for  everything  is  out  at  the  livery. 
I  know,  because  two  travelling  men  who  had  a  date 
with  George  Wilson  over  there  are  tied  up  here." 

"Then  I'll  stay  and  go  out  in  the  morning,"  said 
374 


Ann   Boyd 

King.  "I'm  tired,  anyway,  and  that  is  a  hard  ride 
at  night." 

"Well,  take  the  advice  of  a  friend  and  steer  clear 
of  Chester  right  now,"  said  the  clerk.  "  He's  a  devil 
when  he's  worked  up  and  drinking.  Really,  he's 
dangerous." 

"I  know  that,  but  I'll  not  run  from  him,"  said 
King.  "I  thought  my  fighting  day  was  over,  but 
there  are  some  things  I  can't  take." 


XLI 

JT  was  dusk  the  following  evening. 
Virginia  was  at  the  cow-lot  when  her 
uncle  came  lazily  up  the  road  from 
the  store  and  joined  her.  "Well,"  he 
drawled  out,  as  he  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pocket  for  his  pipe,  "I  reckon  I'm  onto  a  piece 
o'  news  that  you  and  your  mother,  nor  nobody  else 
this  side  o'  Wilson's  shebang,  knows  about.  Mrs. 
Snodgrass  has  just  arrived  by  hack  from  Darley, 
where  she  attended  the  circus  and  tried  to  get  a 
job  to  beat  that  talking-machine  they  had  in  the 
side-show.  It  seems  that  this  neighborhood  has 
furnished  the  material  for  more  excitement  over 
there  than  the  whole  exhibition,  animals  and  all." 

"How  is  that,  uncle?"  Virginia  asked,  absent- 
mindedly. 

"Why,  it  seems  that  a  row  has  been  on  tap  be- 
tween Langdon  Chester  and  Luke  King  for,  lo,  these 
many  months,  anyway,  and  yesterday,  when  the 
population  of  Darley  turned  out  in  as  full  force  to 
meet  Luke  King  as  they  did  the  circus  parade,  why 
it  was  too  much  for  Chester's  blood.  He  kept  drink- 
ing and  drinking  till  he  hardly  knew  which  end  of 
him  was  up,  and  then  he  met  Luke  at  the  Johnston 
House  face  to  face.  Mrs.  Snod  says  Langdon  evi- 
dently laid  his  plans  so  there  would  have  to  be  a 

376 


Ann    Boyd 

fight  in  any  case,  so  he  up  and  slandered  that  good 
old  mammy  of  King's." 

' '  Oh,  uncle,  and  they  fought  ? ' '  Virginia,  pale  and 
trembling,  gasped  as  she  leaned  for  support  on  the 
fence. 

"You  bet  they  did.  Mrs.  Snod  says  the  vile 
slander  had  no  sooner  left  Chester's  lips  than  King 
let  drive  at  him  right  between  the  eyes.  That 
knocked  Langdon  out  of  the  ring  for  a  while,  and 
his  friends  took  him  to  a  room  to  wash  him  off,  for 
he  was  bleeding  like  a  stuck  pig.  King  was  to  come 
out  here  last  night,  but  Mrs.  Snod  says  he  was 
afraid  Chester  would  think  he  was  running  from 
the  field,  and  so  he  stayed  on  at  the  hotel.  Then, 
this  morning  early,  the  two  of  them  come  together 
on  the  street  in  front  of  the  bank  building.  Mrs. 
Snod  says  Chester  drawed  first  and  got  Luke  covered 
before  he  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  and  then  fired. 
Several  shots  were  exchanged,  but  the  third  brought 
King  to  his  knees.  They  say  he's  done  for,  Virginia. 
He  wasn't  dead  to-day  at  twelve,  but  the  doctors 
said  he  couldn't  live  an  hour.  They  say  he  was 
bleeding  so  terrible  inside  that  they  was  afraid  to 
move  him.  I'm  here  to  tell  you,  Virgie,  that  I  used 
to  like  that  chap;  and  when  he  got  to  coming  to 
see  you,  and  I  could  see  that  he  meant  business,  I 
was  in  hopes  you  and  him  would  make  a  deal,  but 
then  you  up  and  bluffed  him  off  so  positive  that  I 
never  could  see  what  it  meant.  Why,  he  was  about 
the  most  promising  young  man  I  ever —  But  look 
here,  child,  what's  ailing  you?" 

"Nothing,  uncle,"  Virginia  said;  and,  with  her 
head  down,  she  turned  away.  Looking  after  her  for 
*s  377 


Ann   Boyd 

a  moment  in  slow  wonder,  Sam  went  on  into  the 
farm-house,  bent  on  telling  the  startling  news  to  his 
sister-in-law.  As  for  Virginia,  she  walked  on  through 
the  gathering  dusk  towards  Ann  Boyd's  house. 
"Dead,  dying!"  she  said,  with  a  low  moan.  "It 
has  come  at  last." 

Farther  across  the  meadow  she  trudged,  uncon- 
scious of  the  existence  of  her  physical  self.  At  a 
little  stream  which  she  had  to  cross  on  stepping- 
stones  she  paused  and  moaned  again.  Dead — actu- 
ally dead!  Luke  King,  the  young  man  whom  the 
whole  of  his  state  was  praising,  had  been  shot  down 
like  a  dog.  No  matter  what  might  be  the  current 
report  as  to  the  cause  of  the  meeting,  young  as  she 
was  she  knew  it  to  be  the  outcome  of  Langdon  Ches- 
ter's passion — the  fruition  of  his  mad  threat  to  her. 
Yes,  he  had  made  good  his  word. 

Approaching  Ann's  house,  she  entered  the  gate 
just  as  Mrs.  Boyd  came  to  the  door  and  stood  smil- 
ing knowingly  at  her. 

"Virginia,"  she  called  out,  cheerily,  "what  you 
reckon  I've  got  here?  You  could  make  a  million 
guesses  and  then  be  wide  of  the  mark." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boyd!"  Virginia  groaned,  as  she  totter- 
ed to  the  step  and  raised  her  eyes  to  the  old  woman's 
face,  "you  haven't  heard  the  news.  Luke  is  dead!" 

"Dead?"  Ann  laughed  out  impulsively.  "Oh  no, 
I  reckon  not.  Come  in  and  take  a  chair  by  the 
fire;  you've  got  your  feet  wet  with  the  dew." 

"He's  dead,  he's  dead,  I  tell  you!"  Virginia 
stood  still,  her  white  and  rigid  face  upturned. 
"Langdon  Chester,  the  contemptible  coward,  shot 
him  at  Darley  this  morning." 

378 


Ann  Boyd 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  A  knowing  look  came  into 
Ann  Boyd's  face.  She  stroked  an  impulsive  smile 
from  her  facile  lips,  but  Virginia  still  saw  its  light  in 
the  twinkling  eyes  above  the  broad,  red  hand.  "You 
say  he's  dead  ?  Well,  well,  that  accounts  for  some- 
thing I  was  wondering  about  just  now.  You  know 
I  am  not  much  of  a  hand  to  believe  in  spiritual 
manifestations  like  table-raising  folks  do,  but  I'll 
give  you  my  word,  Virginia,  that  for  the  last  hour 
and  a  half  I'd  'a'  sworn  Luke  King  himself  was  right 
here  in  the  house.  Just  now  I  heard  something  like 
him  walking  across  the  floor.  It  seemed  to  me  he 
went  out  to  the  shelf  and  took  a  drink  of  water. 
I'll  bet  it's  Luke's  spirit  hanging  about  trying  to 
tell  me  good-bye — that  is,  if  he  really  was  shot,  as 
you  say."  Ann  smiled  again  and  turned  her  face 
towards  the  inside  of  the  room,  and  called  out: 
"Say,  Ghost  of  Luke  King,  if  you  are  in  my  house 
right  now  you'd  better  lie  low  and  listen.  This  silly 
girl  is  talking  so  wild  the  first  thing  you  know  she 
will  be  saying  she  don't  love  Langdon  Chester." 

"Love  him?  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Vir- 
ginia panted.  "I  hate  him.  You  know  I  detest 
him.  I'll  kill  him.  Do  you  hear  me?  I'll  kill  him 
as  sure  as  I  ever  meet  him  face  to  face." 

Ann  stared  at  the  girl  for  a  moment,  her  face  oddly 
beaming,  then  she  looked  back  into  the  room  again. 
"  Do  you  hear  that,  Mr.  Ghost  ?  She  now  says  she'll 
kill  Langdon  Chester  on  sight.  She  says  that  after 
sending  you  about  your  business  for  no  reason  in  the 
world.  You  listen  good.  Maybe  she'll  be  saying 
after  a  while  that  she  loved  you." 

"I  did  love  him.  God  knows  I  loved  him!"  Vir- 
379 


Ann    Boyd 

ginia  cried.  "  I  loved  him  with  every  bit  of  my  soul 
and  body.  I've  loved  him,  worshipped  him,  adored 
him  ever  since  I  was  a  child  and  he  was  so  good  to 
me.  He  was  the  noblest  man  that  ever  lived,  and 
now  a  dirty,  sneaking  coward  has  slipped  up  on  him 
and  shot  him  down  in  cold  blood.  If  I  ever  meet 
that  man,  as  God  is  my  Judge,  I'll — "  With  a  sob 
that  was  almost  a  shriek  Virginia  sank  to  the  door- 
step and  lay  there,  quivering  convulsively. 

A  vast  change  swept  over  Ann  Boyd.  Her  big 
face  filled  with  the  still  blood  of  deep  emotion.  She 
heaved  a  sigh,  and,  turning  towards  the  interior  of 
the  room,  she  said,  huskily : 

"  Come  on,  Luke ;  don't  tease  the  poor  little  thing. 
I  wouldn't  have  carried  it  so  far  if  I  could  have  got 
it  out  of  her  any  other  way.  She's  yours,  dear  boy 
— heart,  soul,  and  body." 

Hearing  these  words,  Virginia  raised  her  head  in 
wonder,  just  as  Luke  King  emerged  from  the  house. 
He  bent  over  her,  and  tenderly  raised  her  up.  He 
was  drawing  her  closer  to  him,  his  fine  face  aflame 
with  tender  passion,  when  Virginia  held  him  firmly 
from  her. 

"  Don't!  don't!"  she  said.     "  If  you  knew—" 

"I've  told  him  everything,  Virginia,"  Ann  broke 
in.  "I  had  to.  I  couldn't  see  my  dear  boy  suffer- 
ing like  he  was,  when — " 

"You  know — "  Virginia  began,  aghast,  "you 
know — " 

"About  you  and  Chester?"  King  said,  with  a  light 
laugh.  "Yes,  I  know  all  about  it,  and  it  made  me 
think  you  the  grandest,  most  self-sacrificing  little 
girl  in  all  the  world.  So  you  thought  I  was  dead? 

380 


Ann     Boyd 

That  was  all  gossip.  It  was  only  a  quarrel  that 
amounted  to  nothing.  I  understand,  now  that  he 
is  sober,  that  Chester  is  heartily  ashamed  of  him- 
self." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Ann  stood  at  the  gate 
and  saw  them  walking  together  towards  Virginia's 
home.  She  watched  them  till  they  were  lost  from 
her  sight  in  the  dusk,  then  she  went  back  into  the 
house.  She  stood  over  the  low  fire  for  a  moment, 
then  said:  "I  won't  get  any  supper  ready.  I 
couldn't  eat  a  bite.  Meat  and  bread  couldn't  shove 
this  lump  out  of  my  throat.  It's  pretty,  pretty, 
pretty  to  see  those  two  together  that  way.  I  be- 
lieve they  have  got  the  sort  of  thing  the  Almighty 
really  meant  love  to  be.  I  know  /  never  got  that 
kind,  though,  as  a  girl,  I  dreamt  of  nothing  else — 
nothing  from  morning  till  night  but  that  one  thing, 
and  yet  here  I  am  this  way — this  way.1'1 


XLII 

[HE  next  morning  the  weather  was  as 
balmy  as  spring.  Ann  had  taken  all 
the  coverings  from  her  beds  and  hung 
them  along  the  fence  to  catch  the 
purifying  rays  of  the  sun.  Her  rag- 
carpet  was  stretched  out  on  the  ground  ready  to  be 
beaten.  She  was  occupied  in  sweeping  the  bare 
floor  of  her  sitting-room  when  a  shadow  fell  across 
the  threshold.  Looking  up,  she  saw  a  tall,  lean 
man,  very  ill -clad,  his  tattered  hat  in  hand,  his 
shoes  broken  at  the  toes  and  showing  the  wearer's 
bare  feet. 

"It's  me,  Ann,"  Boyd  said.  "I  couldn't  stay 
away  any  longer.  I  hope  you  won't  drive  me  off, 
anyway,  before  I've  got  out  what  I  come  to  say." 

She  turned  pale  as  she  leaned  her  broom  against 
the  wall  and  began  to  roll  her  sleeves  down  her  fat 
arms  towards  her  wrists.  "Well,  I  wasn't  looking 
for  you,"  she  managed  to  say. 

"  I  reckon  not,  Ann,"  he  returned,  a  certain  wistful 
expression  in  his  voice  and  strangely  softened  face; 
"but  I  had  to  come.  As  I  say — I  had  to  come  and 
speak  to  you,  anyway." 

"Well,  take  a  chair,"  she  said,  awkwardly.  "I've 
got  the  windows  up  to  let  the  dust  drive  out,  and 
I'll  close  them.  It's  powerful  draughty.  I  don't 

382 


Ann   Boyd 

feel  it,  working  like  I  am,  but  you  might,  coming  in 
from  the  outside." 

He  advanced  to  one  of  the  straight-backed  chairs 
which  he  remembered  so  well,  and  laid  an  unsteady 
hand  on  it,  but  he  did  not  draw  it  towards  him  nor 
sit  down.  Instead,  his  great,  hungry  eyes  followed 
her  movements,  as  she  bustled  from  one  window  to 
another,  like  those  of  a  patient,  offending  dog. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  sit  down  ?"  She  had  turned 
back  to  him,  and  stood  eying  his  poor  aspect  with 
strange  misgivings  and  pity.  In  her  comfort  and 
luxury,  he,  with  his  evidences  of  poverty  and  despair, 
struck  a  strangely  discordant  note. 

He  drew  the  chair  nearer,  and  with  quivering 
knees  she  saw  him  sink  into  it,  with  firmness  at  the 
beginning  and  then  with  the  sudden  collapse  of  an 
invalid.  She  went  to  a  window  and  looked  out. 
Not  seeing  his  horse  hitched  near  by,  she  came  back 
to  him. 

"Where  did  you  hitch?"  she  asked,  her  voice  los- 
ing firmness. 

"I  didn't  have  no  horse,"  he  said;  "I  walked, 
Ann.  Lawson  was  hauling  wrood  with  the  horse. 
He  wouldn't  have  let  me  take  it,  anywray.  He's  got 
awfully  contrary  here  lately.  Me  'n'  him  don't  get 
along  at  all." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me — do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  walked  all  that  way,  in  them  shoes  without 
bottoms,  and — and  you  looking  like  you've  just  got 
up  from  a  long  sick  spell?" 

"I  made  it  all  right,  Ann,  stopping  to  rest  on  the 
way."  A  touch  of  color  seemed  to  have  risen  into 
his  wan  cheeks.  "I  had  to  come  to-day — as  I  did 

383 


Ann   Boyd 

awhile  back — to  do  my  duty,  as  I  saw  it.  In  fact, 
this  seems  even  more  my  duty.  Ann,  Jane  Hem- 
ingway came  over  to  Gilmer  awhile  back.  She 
come  straight  to  my  house,  and,  my  God,  Ann,  she 
come  and  told  me  she'd  been  at  the  bottom  of  all 
our  trouble.  She  set  right  in  and  acknowledged 
that  she  lied;  she  said  she'd  been  lying  all  along 
for  spite,  because  she  hated  you." 

"  And  loved  you,"  Ann  interposed,  quickly.  "  Yes, 
she  came  back  here,  so  I've  been  told,  and  stood  up 
in  meeting  and  said  she'd  been  to  see  you,  and  she 
confessed  it  all  in  public.  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  be  hard  with  her,  Joe.  She  was  only  obeying  her 
laws  of  nature,  as  you  have  obeyed  yours  and  I 
have  mine,  and — and  as  our  offspring  is  now  obeying 
hers.  Tell  me  the  straight  truth,  Joe.  I  reckon 
Nettie  still  feels  strange  towards  me." 

Joe  Boyd's  mild  eyes  wavered  and  sought  the  fire 
beyond  the  toes  of  his  ragged  shoes. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Joe,"  Ann  demanded.  " I'm 
entitled  to  that,  anyway." 

"She's  always  been  a  queer  creature,"  Boyd  fal- 
tered, evasively,  without  looking  up,  and  she  saw 
him  nervously  laving  his  bony  hands  in  the  sheer, 
unsuggestive  emptiness  about  him.  "  But  you 
mustn't  think  it's  just  you  she's  against,  Ann. 
She's  plumb  gone  back  on  me,  too.  The  money  you 
furnished  cleared  the  place  of  debt  and  bought  her 
wedding  outfit,  and  she  got  her  man;  but  not  long 
back  she  found  out  where  the  means  come  from, 
and—" 

Ann's  lips  tightened  in  the  pause  that  ensued. 
Her  face  was  set  like  a  grotesque  mask  of  stone, 

334 


Ann    Boyd 

She  leaned  over  the  fire  and  pushed  a  fallen  ember 
back  under  the  steaming  logs  with  a  poker. 

"She  couldn't  stomach  that,  I  reckon?"  Ann  said, 
in  assumed  calmness. 

"Well,  it  made  her  mad  at  me.  I  won't  tell  you 
all  she  done  or  said,  Ann.  It  wouldn't  do  no  good. 
I'm  responsible  for  what  she  is,  I  reckon.  She  might 
have  growed  up  different  if  she'd  had  the  watchful 
care  of  —  of  a  mother.  What  she  is,  is  what  any 
female  will  become  under  the  care  of  a  shiftless  man 
like  I  am." 

"No,  you  are  wrong,  Joe,"  Ann  said.  "Why  it 
is  so  I  don't  intend  to  explain,  but  Nettie  would 
have  been  like  she  is  under  all  circumstances. 
Money  and  plenty  of  everything  might  have  glazed 
her  character  over,  but  down  at  bottom  she'd  have 
been  what  she  is.  Adversity  generally  brings  out 
all  the  good  that's  in  a  person;  the  reason  it  hasn't 
fetched  it  out  in  her  is  because  it  isn't  there,  nor 
never  has  been.  You  say  you  and  her  don't  get 
on  well?" 

"Not  now,"  he  said.  "She  just  as  good  as  driv 
me  from  home  yesterday.  She  told  me  point-blank 
that  there  wasn't  room  for  me,  and  that  when  the 
baby  comes  they  would  be  more  crowded  and 
pinched  than  ever.  She  actually  sent  Lawson  to 
the  Ordinary  at  Springtown  to  see  if  there  was  a 
place  on  the  poor-farm  vacant.  When  I  dropped 
onto  that,  Ann,  I  come  off.  For  all  I  know,  they 
may  have  some  paper  for  vagrancy  ready  to  serve 
on  me.  I  don't  know  where  I'm  going,  but  I'm 
not  going  back  to  them  two,  never  while  there  is  a 
lingering  breath  left  in  my  body." 

385 


Ann    Boyd 

"The  poor-farm ! "  Ann  said ,  half  to  herself.  "To 
think  that  she  would  consent  to  that,  and  you  her 
father." 

"  I  think  his  folks  is  behind  it,  Ann.  They've  got 
a  reason  for  wanting  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"A  reason,  you  say?"  Ann  was  staring  at  him 
steadily. 

Joe  Boyd's  embarrassment  of  a  moment  before 
returned.  He  twisted  his  hands  together  again. 
"Yes;  it's  like  this,  Ann,"  he  went  on,  awkwardly: 
"a  short  time  back  Lawson's  mother  and  father  got 
onto  the  fact  that  you  were  in  good  circumstances, 
and  it  made  the  biggest  change  in  them  you  ever 
heard  of.  They  talked  it  all  over  the  settlement. 
They  are  hard  up,  and  they  couldn't  talk  of  any- 
thing but  how  much  you  was  worth,  and  what  you 
had  your  money  invested  in,  and  the  like.  After 
they  got  onto  that,  they  never — never  paid  no  at- 
tention to  what  had  been — been  circulated — your 
money  covered  all  that  as  completely  as  a  ten-foot 
snow.  Instead  of  turning  up  their  noses,  as  Nettie 
was  afraid  they  would  do,  it  only  made  them  brag 
about  how  well  their  boy  had  done,  and  what  a 
fool  I  was.  They  tried  all  sorts  of  ways  to  get 
Nettie  interested  in  some  scheme  to  attract  your 
attention,  but  Nettie  would  just  cry  and  take  on 
and  refuse  to  come  over  here  or  to  write  to  you." 

"I  understand" — Ann  stroked  her  compressed 
lips  with  an  unsteady  hand — "I  understand.  I've 
never  been  a  natural  mother  to  her;  she  couldn't 
come  to  me  like  that.  But  you  say  they  turned 
against  you." 

"Yes.  You  see,  the  Lawsons  got  an  idea — the 
386 


Ann   Boyd 

old  woman  did,  in  particular,  from  something  she'd 
picked  up — that  it  was  me  that  stood  between  you 
and  Nettie.  They  thought  you  and  me  had  had  such 
a  serious  falling-out  that  a  proud  woman  like  you 
never  would  have  anything  to  do  with  Nettie  as  long 
as  I  was  about,  and  that  the  best  thing  was  to  shove 
me  off  so  the  reconciliation  would  work  faster.  The 
truth  is,  they  said  that  would  please  you." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Ann  said.  "And  they  set  about 
putting  you  at  the  poor-farm." 

"Yes;  they  seemed  to  think  that  was  as  good  a 
place  as  any.  And  they  could  get  all  the  proof 
necessary  to  put  me  there,  for  I  hadn't  a  cent  to  my 
name  nor  a  whole  rag  to  my  back;  and,  Ann,  for 
the  last  three  months  I  haven't  been  able  to  do  a 
lick  o'  work.  I've  had  a  strange  sort  of  hurting  all 
down  my  left  side,  and  my  right  ankle  seems  affected 
in  the  same  way." 

Ann  Boyd  suddenly  turned  away.  Through  the 
window  she  had  seen  the  wind  blowing  one  of  her 
sheets  from  the  fence,  and  she  went  out  and  put 
it  in  place.  He  limped  out  into  the  sunlight  and 
stood  at  the  little,  sagging  gate  a  few  yards  from  her. 
Something  of  his  old  dignity  and  gallantry  of  manner 
was  on  him:  he  still  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  thin, 
iron-gray  hair  exposed  to  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun. 

"  Well,  I'd  better  be  going,  Ann,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  no  telling  when  somebody  might  come  along  and 
see  me  here,  and  start  the  talk  you  hate  so  much. 
I  come  all  the  way  here  to  tell  you  how  low  and 
mean  I  feel  for  taking  Jane  Hemingway's  word  in- 
stead of  yours,  and  how  plumb  sorry  I  am.  You 
and  me  may  never  meet  again  this  side  of  the  Seat 

387 


Ann  Boyd 

of  Judgment,  and  I'll  say  this  if  I  never  speak  again. 
Ann,  the  only  days  of  perfect  happiness  I  ever  had 
was  here  with  you,  and,  if  all  of  it  was  to  do  over 
again,  I'd  suffer  torture  by  fire  rather  than  believe 
you  anything  but  an  angel  from  heaven.  Oh,  Ann, 
it  was  just  my  poor,  weak  inferiority  to  you  that 
made  me  misjudge  you.  If  I'd  ever  been  a  real  man 
—  a  man  worthy  of  a  woman  like  you  —  I'd  have 
snapped  my  fingers  at  all  that  was  said,  but  I  was 
obeying  my  laws,  as  you  say.  I  simply  wasn't  deep 
enough  nor  high  enough  to  do  you  justice." 

He  drew  the  little  gate  ajar  and  dragged  his  tired 
feet  through  the  opening.  The  fence  was  now  be- 
tween them.  She  looked  down  the  road.  A  woman 
under  a  sun -bonnet  and  little  shawl  was  coming 
towards  them.  By  a  strange  fatality  it  was  Jane 
Hemingway,  but  she  was  not  to  pass  directly  by 
them,  as  her  path  homeward  turned  sharply  to  the 
left  a  hundred  yards  below.  They  both  recognized 
her. 

"I  don't  know  fully  what  you  mean,  Joe,"  Ann 
said,  softly,  "but  if  you  mean  by  what  you  just  said 
that  you'd  be  willing  now  to — to  come  back — if 
that's  what  you  mean,  I'd  have  something  to  say 
that  maybe,  in  justice  to  myself,  I  ought  to  say." 

"  Would  I  come  back?  Would  I ?  Oh,  Ann,  how 
could  you  doubt  that,  when  you  see  how  miserable 
and  sorry  I  feel.  God  knows  I'd  never  feel  worthy 
of  you;  but  if  you  would — if  you  only  could — let 
me  stay,  I — " 

"  I  couldn't  consent  to  that,  Joe — that's  the  point," 
Ann  answered,  firmly.  "Anything  else  on  earth 
but  that.  I  expect  to  provide  for  Nettie  in  a  sub- 

388 


Ann   Boyd 

stantial  way,  and  I  expect  to  have  a  lawyer  make 
it  one  of  the  main  conditions  that  her  income  de- 
pends on  her  good  treatment  of  you  as  long  as  you 
and  she  live.  I  expect  to  do  that,  but  the  other 
matter  is  different.  A  woman  of  my  stamp  has  her 
pride  and  her  rights,  Joe.  I've  been  through  a  lot, 
but  I  can  endure  just  so  much  and  no  more.  If 
— if  you  did  come  back,  and  we  was  married  over 
again,  it  would  go  out  to  the  world  that  you  had 
taken  me  back,  and  I  couldn't  stand  that.  My  very 
womanhood  rises  up  and  cries  out  against  that  in  a 
voice  that  rings  clear  to  the  end  of  truth  and 
justice  and  woman's  eternal  rights.  Joe,  I'm  too 
big  and  pure  in  myself  to  let  the  world  say  a  man 
who  was — was — I'm  going  to  say  it — was  little 
enough  to  doubt  my  word  for  the  best  part  of  my 
days  had  at  last  taken  me  back  —  taken  me  back 
when  my  lonely  life's  sun  was  on  the  decline.  No, 
no,  never;  for  the  sake  of  unborn  girl  infants  who 
may  have  to  meet  what  I  fell  under  when  I  was  too 
young  to  know  the  difference  between  the  smile  of 
hell  and  the  smile  of  heaven,  I  say  No!  We'd  better 
live  out  our  days  in  loneliness  apart — you  frail  and 
uncared  for,  and  me  on  here  without  a  friend  or 
companion — than  to  sanction  such  a  baleful  thing 
as  that." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  you  let  me  do,"  Boyd 
said,  with  a  flare  of  his  old  youthful  adoration  in 
his  face.  "Let  me  get  down  on  my  knees,  Ann, 
and  crawl  with  my  nose  in  the  dust  to  everybody 
that  we  ever  knew  and  tell  them  that  I'd  begged 
and  begged  for  mercy,  and  at  last  Ann  had  taken 
me  back,  weak  and  broken  as  I  am — weak,  ashamed, 

389 


Ann   Boyd 

and  unworthy,  but  back  with  her  in  the  place  I  lost 
through  my  own  narrowness  and  cowardice.  Let 
me  do  that,  Ann — oh,  let  me  do  that!  I  can't  go 
away.  I'd  die  without  you.  I've  loved  you  all, 
all  these  years  and  had  you  in  my  mind  night  and 
day." 

Ann  was  looking  at  the  ground.  The  blood  had 
mounted  red  and  warm  into  her  face.  Suddenly 
she  glanced  down  the  road.  Jane  Hemingway  was 
just  turning  into  the  path  leading  to  her  home ;  her 
eyes  were  fastened  on  them.  She  paused  and  stood 
staring. 

"  Poor  thing!"  Ann  said,  her  moist,  glad  eyes  fixed 
upon  Jane.  "  She  is  as  sorry  and  repentant  as  she 
can  be.  Her  only  hope  right  now,  Joe,  is  that  we'll 
make  it  up.  She  used  to  love  you,  too,  Joe.  You 
are  the  only  man  she  ever  did  love.  Let's  wave  our 
hands  to  her  so  she  will  understand  that — we  have 
come  to  an  understanding." 

"Oh,  Ann,  do  you  mean — "  But  Ann,  with  a 
flushed,  happy  face,  was  waving  her  hand  at  her 
old  enemy.  As  for  Boyd,  he  lowered  his  head  to 
the  fence  and  sobbed. 


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